Nerella the Calm
by Gideon Jones
Summary: About a decade after the Alduin was thwarted Nerella the Calm simply vanished. Branwe, a prospective Bard, sets out on his own to discover the untold stories around the one of Skyrim's greatest heroes. To that end, he joins forces with Nerella's daughter Runa, who has also been looking into the disappearance of her mother.
1. Chapter 1

It was just a little bit further now. The long, slow descent of the elevator was a trudging trek. The huge gears ground smoothly, a thousand some years of expert craftsmanship having gone into their construction, and almost four thousand years of disuse had done very little to compensate for the impeccable construction of the contraption.

"You take me to the nicest places," said one of the occupants of the elevator dryly. Gradually as the large stone slat lowered down, all other sounds had disappeared, leaving only with the displacement of air. A steady roar, like a stone throat hissing at the intrusion so deep into the crust of the earth. To say the air was still and cool here may have been an understatement. The air was so undisturbed it had practically forgotten _how_ to move. The dirt itself was rather affronted to be forced to make way by being stepped upon. This was a place so old, and so magical, it had started to come alive in a way. Mostly, that way was a more pronounced inertia towards stillness, and stasis. But that, too, was a way the land could live.

The two figures stepped through the smooth-carved stonework with a decisive purpose, but no small amount of caution. A place like this, even after so long, even upon return visits, even with all the precautions taken, could still have active traps. Neither of them lit a torch, prefering to walk in darkness. The remnants of the structure here had more than enough light to see by for the likes of them.

The first area was hardly more than a stone and brass cage of a foyer. Thick, heavy grey stone with brass bars and fittings. On either side of the gate, a threadbare and faded tapestry, the herald of its faded sigil long lost to the ages. The taller of the two – the one who had spoken before – spared a lingering glance to them.

"These were gone even by the time I was around," she mused quietly, more to herself. The other figure a hand on the lever to the right, and pulled it down. The gate in front of them swung open. Beyond it was rough hewn stone, rough enough that it must have been a natural cavern. The type of rock was even different. Darker, more like hard clay, less like quartzite or schist. The path was lined with slate cobbling. To the right of the path was a broken fountain, sputtering water helplessly out of a mangled pipe. To the left, with the path bending around it, was a thick stone brazier. It was lit somehow.

They descended some stairs, obviously made of the same imported grey stone the Dwemer architects had been so fond of so very long ago.

"Wow," said the tall one. "You weren't kidding. This place is huge," she breathed. By the light of the brazier she stood beside, more of her features could be made out. She was about the right height and stockiness to be Imperial, though not quite. Something closer to Nordic, perhaps. Nothing quite fit the ticket either. Her eyes were red, with blackened yellow whites. Her skin was pale and pink, her hair like polished obsidian in shining black waves which ended in wispy locks by the line of her jaw. No one would be confused about whether she was pretty or not. She wore a white heiyon robe, seemingly unperterbed by the cold in any way. Bright white stones on thin silver chains hung about her, from her ears, on her forehead like a crown, and about her neck. She smirked at the other figure once her eyes were done taking in the vastness of the scene in front of her.

"Not going to take a moment to admire the view?" she chided. The other figure stopped in its tracks. This one was harder to see somehow. Though there was a gloom of shadow cast over the entire cavern, somehow the shorter person held onto them better. The shadows almost clung to the silhouette, making them hard to be seen, even when inspecting. All that could be made out was a dark, hooded shape, probably rolling its eyes as it retraced some of its steps, and stood beside the taller one. They clasped each others' hands as they took in the view.

There was a great pillar of stone, thick as a silo, carved away at by the soft chisel of water. At the base of the pillar was another of the ornate stone braziers. The wall curved away from the path toward the right, and the path curved around the pillar and brazier to the left. Crumbled statuary and stonework littered the area. The two resumed their walk, but slowly, with an eye for the sights.

There were more stairs down, this time in two flights. At the bottom of the first, the magnitude of the cavern is finally known in full. The taller one gaped at the ceiling, which careened away hundreds of feet up. From the steps could be seen the water, which formed a moderately sized underground lake. In the middle of it was an island set around the pillar. Connected to the pillar were two, apparently naturally formed, stone bridges. At the bottom of the second flight of stairs, off to the right and somewhat in the distance, buildings could be made out, like a little village. There was a soft, incredibly distant and faint little ray of sunlight pointing toward the centre of them.

"You know, if I'd spent the better part of the last millenia in a cave like this, I might not hold I against them so much," said the tall one. The short one nudged her in the ribs playfully, but said nothing.

They crossed the bridge, soft dirt displacing with each step. As they passed into the sunlight, the shadows finally had to let go. The shrouded, humanoid shape gave way to more detail. Short, and lithe, probably elven. Draped with a cowl over the head, and chain-mail about the torso. Thick, fur lined gloves and boots. A very finely made lute strapped to a backpack, as well as a quiver of arrows, and a bow half again taller than the figure carrying it. And a bizarrely ornate pickaxe hanging from the belt.

Upon the taller one's back was another lute and backpack, a much smaller and more practical looking, although ornate bow, and a quiver of elven arrows. About her waist she had an obsidian sword, with hungry looking runes inscribed on its blade, and a folded black fan. Both figures walked so comfortably with their own personal armories that there was no doubting at all they were dangerous people.

The sunlight faded to darkness over the last leg of the first bridge. There was a small shrine, or perhaps it was a work bench, one the pillar island. A small Dwemer oil fueled lamp casting its distinctly sickly light to one side of it, and a vent to the other. Looming over it was a large brass face. Like the visage of a disappointed foreman watching over his workers for all of eternity. The table itself was covered in gears, cogs and struts. Screws and other assorted tools for making automatons.

Veering right again, past yet another lit brazier on the left, they crossed the second bridge. They passed under a rather plain, and comparatively unimpressive archway at the end.

Now, at the foot of the buildings, it was clear this was no village. This was a fortress, huge and imposing. It was a return to the schist, grey and gold, in the symphony of brass mixed magnificently with stone. Sphere Centurion statues stood to either side of the walk up, poised, and looking so much like the real thing, they might come alive at any point. There were two sets of stairs, one on either side of a fenced lookout porch, which loomed overhead like a cloud of doom.

On the next flight of stares the doom and foreboding was off to either side, hanging in the shadows of the massive towers. Though closer to the top, the sole ray of sunlight glared faintly off of tree branches up ahead. The air here was moving, hot and sweet. It had gotten much warmer in here, and the water was making it quite humid. Not to mention the sound of the cavern echoing the waterfall, which fed the river, which fed the lake at the end of a cauldron of stone. Fungus was growing in every crevice it could find. The taller figure frowned as her sandals squelched in slimy fungus. She sighed through a grimace, and shook her head.

"I take back the nice things I said about this place. Yuck," she said. The other figure swung their clasped hands playfully, and made silent motions of mocking. "Laugh it up," warned the tall one again. The shorter one nodded.

At the top of the stairs there was a small square. There were long-since tripped mechanical contraptions, whose purposes at this point could hardly be deduced. Wild paddles with faintly glowing round window in the centre. The light which had shown down from the distant ceiling fell in a single ray upon the tree in the centre of the square. The tall one let go of the other, and came closer to get a better look.

It was in a raised stone planter, almost like a dais. All around the outside were designs and carvings, worn down over centuries of neglect and fungus. The tree itself was old, twisted, gnarled, and dry. It looked like it held on as best as it could possibly have been expected to, but still died in the end. It was much warmer up here. So warm it was bone dry, even with the waterfall only a few yards off. The taller one wiped at her forehead.

"Well preserved," she noted. "Even the tree didn't rot away into nothing. How long ago was this place abandoned?" she wondered aloud. The other shrugged.

There were three doorways pointing away from the tree. The door to the left led only to a cave-in of the once proud, and powerful architecture crumbled with age. To the right was a view of the waterfall, as if the rest of the structure on that side was simply cleaved away like a tectonic shoulder shrug. And flanking either side of the centre door were those same metal heads from before. These two bigger, and more imposing, staring down at anyone who came to this sacred place with the vengeful judgment of gods. The elf led the way though the middle door, and began to quietly trot down the stairs.

After the impressive openness and spaciousness of the cavern, this hallway felt damn right claustrophobic. Steam puffed overhead, as there were massive pipes, wider around than the height of a nord. They were strewn about the place. running overhead like particularly violent rafters. The delicate beauty, and attention to detail hadn't traveled to this corridor. Furiously hot pipes along the wall beside them, like a basilisk slithering along for their journey. The tall one flicked some wine at one experimentally. It sizzled, and vanished instantly. "Cool," she said.

More threadbare tapestries and rugs were here, in their time no doubt impressive. Threads made out of pure golds had shattered and fallen to the ground in small flecks. Older than anyone could really imagine. Now they were just sad scraps of fabric and finery, no living soul remembering what the symbols even meant.

Down yet more stairs, the Dwemer being so fond of ups and downs as they were. These ones were adorned with sculptures the shape of some gyroscopic measuring device, or some complex orbital symbol, mirrored on either side. At the bottom of the stairs, the hall took a left. To the right was another brass cage. The massive pistons behind the bars were working like mammoths, pushing their way against a tree. Heave after heave, making progress every time, but in for a long task.

"This place means business..." said the tall one, awe actually creeping into her otherwise sardonic voice. "I've been in Dwemer ruins before... But this one..." she said. The other one was standing smugly ahead of her, with arms crossed. The tall one rolled her eyes, and grinned. "Okay, okay, so you meant it. You win, happy?" she asked. The elf nodded jovially. "Right, smart ass. Just let me appreciate it, will you? It's really impressive."

At the other end of the hall was a massive set of double doors. They were all etched brass, acid carved. Fine and cleanly defined lines of geometric composition set against a rough, unpolished backdrop. The elf waited for the human to be ready, then with a dramatic flare forced them aside.

Beyond them was an amphitheater. At the other end of it, staring down at you more like a god than a machine, was the Atherium Forge. The tall one had no words for this. Her mouth hung in slack silence for some time before the elf scooped up her hand, and led her down yet more stairs, in an even narrower hallway. The ceiling didn't follow the stairs down, and continued up into a complicated chimney apparatus.

A massive golden head looking down from on high, flanked from all directions in the red glow of magma, a steady drizzle of pure molten metal being poured out from the chin. There was a sound, or perhaps more a sensation. Like a low hum, so deep it couldn't be heard, but could be felt inside one's bones. There was a bubbling pool of fire between the stairs and the Forge. It was covered with an ornate grille, much like the design on the doors. The pipes in this room had been laid with more care, more reverence. This place was almost like a temple. It widened out, and the valve release controls were raised and out of the way. More like a place for an audience than worker.

The tall woman stopped before they stepped onto the grille, her free hand covering her face. She shook her head, looking flushed and breathless. The elf stopped when her arm provided resistance. They exchanged a look, the human's eyes flashing just a touch of fear for a moment. The elf took her hand in both, and kissed her knuckles sweetly. Then the elf dropped her hand, and continued toward the Forge itself. Like an ant walking toward an Atronoch.

To either side of the base of the Forge itself were several tanks, each containing molten metals, and more magma in different conditions for working Atherium. There was a stand in the middle, a little cog shaped receptacle. The elf stooped over it for a moment, and pulled out a small pouch. In this light, more of the elf could be made out. She was probably female, dark skinned but not ashen. Probably Bosmer. Her hood was brown leather, her chain-mail was well kept, green fabric underneath polished steel. The massive bow strapped to her back was most decidedly made out of bone. It looked like it was made from a dragon's wing. The arrows on her were excellently crafted, and matched the quiver and bow to a tee. The lute, in this light, looked no more remarkable than before.

The elf hefted the pouch in her hand gently. She shook it very gently into the receptacle. Almost as if concerned its contents might ricochet out, she covered one side, and shook it just a little more forcefully. Small shards of pebbles rattled out. The entire contents was hardly enough to make a lump bigger than a toe. And they glowed, a rather bright teal.

The elf pocketed the pouch once she was done pouring. She pulled her gloves off, putting them in her satchel. She placed her hands over the two control globes at the top of the daises. There was a teal flash, and the machine flit to life at her touch. A similar flash showed out from under the edges of her armour a moment, too. She gripped tightly, the Forge began to make its second new piece of Atherium in nearly five thousand years.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three nights Branwe had waited at the Starswain inn. All told, he knew it wasn't far from his home. But he felt that nervous tick of it being further than he'd ever been before. He'd packed up one night, which gradually turned into a frenzy and fit of him staying up all night fussing about whether he had everything he'd need for such a journey. He'd never had occasion to do so before. Rithleen had scolded him, and told him not to go. But it was winter, he argued. She wouldn't need him for harvest, she could man the vineyard herself, even for a while season if she needed to. He had a mission. A mission which his older sister in no way liked, respected, or thought well of, but a mission none the less. He had written to the Bards College of Solitude. They were a very selective bunch these days, but he had written, full of hope all the same. A polite inquiry wasn't going to hurt anyone. The worst that could have happened was the ignored him. Okay, well, the worst that could have happened was that they bothered to take the time to write him back and tell him the poem he had sent them was so atrociously awful that he should give up on being a bard at all, and live as an underground hermit for the rest of his life. They wrote him back, though. And it wasn't to tell him to start growing his beard out to cover him like a loincloth.

Their acceptance process was becoming more and more competitive. They had students from all over Nirn, and applicants were pouring in to be a part of their prestigious institution. Branwe's poem had been read, and apparently enjoyed enough to warrant a response. Their response was to tell him that their admissions department required several creative pieces of varying and specific formats – all of which he felt equal to the task of – and also one research thesis. It was one thing to write a clever tune, it was another to be the bearer of history, and to be resourceful enough to get it right. One historical figure, one thoroughly, well-researched thesis, detailing their accomplishments, providing a historical context for them, and proving a grasp and understanding of not just propaganda, but facts.

At first, he hadn't known what to write about, who to choose. Saint Jiub? Pelagius the Mad? M'aiq the Liar? His ideas ranged from too well documented, to too boring, to too obscure. One day as he was plucking a tune on his porch, it came to him. He stumbled upon a little riff by accident; one of those little bits of mental flotsam which drifts to ones conscious every now and then. It was the melody of the Dragonborn Comes.

Nerella the Calm.

There was no doubt she was of significant historical impact, even if it was only twenty years ago that this history took place. He was something of a idolater of her, anyway. A classic example of an incredible hero. And not only that, but a Bosmer, too. There had been many a night when he was young when merely the thought of all that she had done, and how famous she was, despite the fact that she was short, dark-skinned, bug-eyed, and all the other things children called one another... Someone like him, another Bosmer, could do all of that. That thought had carried him on. She was perfect for this thesis. Famous and well-known, but not already so thoroughly documented and done-to-death. She was an exciting subject for him to get to learn more about, to get to become even more of an expert on. Honestly, in retrospect, the choice should have been obvious.

He spent weeks in Skingraad's libraries, and when his failiy visited the capital, hr spent all his time in them there as well. He spent festivals pouring over all the tomes and details he could find on her. He didn't learn much at all that was new. It was only by pure luck that he was leafing through an autobiography of the former Jarl of Riften and noticed something even he hadn't already known before. More accurately, he knew it, but hadn't thought it relevant. Nerella had raised a family. She was survived by two children. Nord adoptees. They were mentioned in passing only, something about inviting the whole family to a dinner party of some sort.

This was his first real lead on anything substantial. He could find more information on her if he could find information on one of her children. He waited impatiently for books to arrive after sending for them, once again garnering Rithleen's annoyance when he worked distractedly, his mind elsewhere as he laboured. Geneological histories of Skyrim arrived, and he read through them page by page. More complete collections had to be sent for, and waited for, and scoured for information.

Which brings us up to date of why he was in the Starwain in, waiting... Waiting somewhat impatiently, he might have added... for Runa Fair-Shield to pass through this way on her way to Bruma on holiday. Tracking her down once he knew who she was hadn't been nearly as difficult as he'd expected. Her brother, Hroar, had been too hard to find, but Runa was registered within the College of Winterhold – hell, within the Bards College in Solitude, too! - making no secret of herself. She maintained a residence in Cheydenhall, and travelled to Bruma during the winter season. When he had learned that she was close enough to be in, literally in, the same province as he was... Well, it had been impossible to even consider not venturing out to meet her, talk with her, figure out what she knew and how to find more information on her mother.

Now, though, three days of waiting had dampened his spirit a little. Perhaps he had been too hasty, too foolish in his excitement. Rithleen's voice echoed in his head, reminding him not to live in the clouds, and to get some work done. He played every night in payment for a place to sleep in the stables. And he played to drive his sister's voice from his mind, to keep himself focused on his goal, and believing he could accomplish it. The innkeep had said that no one by her name had come through here, but he didn't have a physical description of her other than a rough age, and that she was a Nord. Which, of course, fit the description of many women passing through on their way to Bruma. The innkeep was new, too, so asking if there was a regular that came through here this time of year didn't work. He hadn't even owned the place a whole year, which made him very little help.

The tips Branwe made were meager at best, hardly enough for a meal each day. And these had been the busier nights, the innkeep warned. If he didn't make more, Branwe wouldn't be able to eat. He had just enough food, if he rationed it right, to be able to make the trip home again. If he started dipping into those reserves, he'd have to give up on what had culminated into seven and a half months of research, and ill-advised gallivanting across Cyrodiil in the hopes of finding one single person.

It was his fourth day. He was playing one of his own compositions to a nearly empty room. This was a song from one of the books he'd bought in his mad search; Songs of Skyrim. The ancient song on the last page. He had toyed with tunes, and melodies, and accompaniments for most of this journey. Tonight was just one such variation. It hadn't turned out to be popular by any means; hardly anyone tipped during a song they neither knew the words to. And since he was spouting "naal ok zin lost vahriin," which essentially amounted to gibberish, no one was likely to learn them anyway. And yet there, in his coffer at the end of his set, was a stack of gold well large enough to buy him at least three full meals.

Most of the patrons ignored him as he packed up his things. When he came across this shocking discovery, he started looking around the room again. There, in the corner by the door, one patron was watching him. Sitting at a table with three chairs, she was tall for a woman, even by Nord standards. She had long, honey-blonde hair tied out of her way in braids down the sides of her head, and flowing into a loose mane from there. She was dressed lightly for the weather, wearing tattered cloth breeches, and a worn leather corset over her blouse. All of them were used to the point of having lost whatever original colour they were intended to have. She had furs beside her, draped over one of the three chairs to dry. The third was empty, with a tankard in front of it in addition to the one she held in her hand. She was watching him with a quizzical little smile, curious to see what he was going to do next.

"You play it well," said the woman. Her accent was thin, and well hidden, but present nevertheless. She spoke with strength and ease apparent in her tone. "The pronunciation is a little off here and there, but for someone from outside of Skyrim it was well done," she said approvingly. "Been a long time since I've heard any rendition of it."

"I take it you're the one I can thank for tonight's meal?" asked Branwe.

"You eat too well if that sum only covered tonight," she chided, raising an eyebrow. Branwe laughed.

"A king's feast," replied Branwe. "I take it you're Runa Fair-Shield?" he asked her, looking sidelong as he approached. She smirked slightly, and leaned back.

"I heard you were looking for me," she said. Branwe frowned, but as he opened his mouth to ask how, she answered. "Saben told me when I told him my name," she said, nodding her head toward the innkeeper. "Mentioned the was a very tenacious stalker here, and that he would understand if I turned around and walked right back out. The kind fool even offered to waive the reservation fee." Branwe deflated slightly.

"So he knew who you were this whole time..." he said. Runa chuckled, and nodded.

"A good man, who keeps his customers discreet," she praised. "Earned himself a tip, and a repeat customer," she answered. "So, what has you searching the wide world looking for me?" she asked. She motioned for him to sit down beside her. He looked around confused a moment, seeking whoever had occupied the chair with the mug in front of it. "Have a drink," she said. He blinked, and felt small. Almost like prey staring down a lioness who was deciding whether she was hungry or not. He set his lute down against the wall, and sat where bid.

"My name is Branwe," he began, his eagerness fueling him on further. "I'm a freelance bard, looking to get an education in Solitude," he said. Runa nodded.

"A fine institution. You play well enough, but I doubt you sought me out just for me to put in a good word for you," she said, still easy, still leaning back watching as event unfolded around her.

"No," he agreed. "I tracked you down... You see, the Bard's College admissions department has very strict requirements on how to apply. I need to write a thesis on someone of historical importance. I want to write about your mother."

Runa's reaction – or rather, lack thereof – was a dead give away that she was caught off guard by this. Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and with one finger, she stroked her tankard thoughtfully. She was sizing him up, he felt almost certain. Sizing him up, and probably finding him lacking. He tried not to waver under her gaze, tried not to look weak, or faint. She leveled her study against him for quite some time in silence before taking a drink.

"You want to write about mama," said Runa finally. Branwe swallowed against a mouth that had gone dry, and licked his lips to wet them before answering.

"Yes. Nerella the Calm," he said. Runa's nostrils flared slightly, and she looked down her nose at him.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"You're listed as her heir. Has... Has no one tracked you down before?"

"Not relating to mama, no. It doesn't occur to most people that she would have a Nord daughter, or even a child at all."

"Honestly, I lucked onto it..." admitted Branwe, flushing slightly. "I was reading Laila-Law-Giver's book, the Price Of the Storm, and she mentioned you in passing..." he began nervously. To his surprise, though, she was laughing. He trailed off with his words, and merely looked at her quizzically.

"What do you want to know about mama?" she asked smiling.

"...Weren't you—I mean, just a moment ago...?"

"Mama had enemies," explained Runa. "But you're too scrawny to be one of them." She yawned. "You have questions, or not?"

"I... I wondered if I could do an extensive interview with you... I mean, I know it would be inconvenient and a lot of time to commit... But the writing-" he started, but in the middle of his rehearsed preamble, she waved him into silence, and stifled another yawn into her fist.

"Extensive interview, lots of time, commitment of something or other..." she mumbled. "Look, in case it wasn't clear, I'm traveling. On foot, I might add. I'm tired, and it's late, and I have another leg of of my journey tomorrow. I don't want to do it all in one bit, and certainly not all tonight," she said. "So if you have questions, make them quick."

Right. This was actually happening. This was not only actually happening, but this was a real person, with a real schedule to keep, and he had a limited number of questions he got to ask. He had no idea where to begin. Easy questions, things he'd hoped to start with, to inspire other questions... Well, they'd just hold him back from the questions of substance. Which, unfortunately, he was drawing a blank on.

"Well, ah..." he began. She didn't look amused at his stalling for time. "I guess my first question would, um, be, uh... what would you describe as... I mean, what are some inaccuracies in the tales told of her?" he finally settled on. She stared him down with the intensity of a stampede. "Or... I suppose we could... I could schedule another time to sit down and interview you properly..." he offered.

"You're talking about an entire person," she stated. "A whole lifetime's worth of accomplishment and achievement. You want to ask me what got left out of the songs?" She shook her head. "She took a shit occasionally."

"Um, maybe that's..."

"It's not something that you can learn in one sitting, in one conversation, in one interview. You can't ask a question clever enough to learn who a person is..."

Crestfallen, Branwe had to admit she was right.

"I just need enough to write my thesis..." he murmured halfheartedly. This didn't illicit the response he'd hoped for. To this, Runa glowered.

"You want to cash in on her life?" she asked indignantly. "If you're going to write a thesis on mama, one unlike those which have already been written about her... If you're going to go to the trouble of tracking down her own kin to learn more about her than you can find in your damn books... If you're going to do that, you're not, I hope I'm clear on this, not, going to have my help in only getting enough to write your thesis."

Branwe looked pleadingly at her, throwing his hands to her helplessly. He again opening his mouth to speak, but she cut him short.

"What are you doing for the next month?"

"...What?"

"You were planning to write a thesis for a time, yes? Research, and writing, and proofing?"

"...Yes?"

"Then instead of one interview... Set the record straight," she said. "Come along with me. Hear the many stories, as I remember them. Get the flavour of who mama was."

"Are you... are you serious?" asked Branwe. He was beyond flabbergasted. This was more than he could possibly have hoped for. "Of course! I have nothing—I mean, I was hoping to be working on my thesis, or in the Bard's college in that time frame—I, yes!"

"Good. You can start by carrying my things to my room."

…


	3. Chapter 3

_Rithleen._

 _I promised I'd write to you while I was away. I've found ms Fair-Shield, just like I said I would! You should have a little more faith in your younger brother sometimes. I'm going to be traveling with her for a while. I'm following her up to Bruma where she winters most years. I'll send you another letter from there._

 _I'll probably be back in time for the spring harvest. I can't imagine this will take too long. But if everything goes well, I'll be studying in Solitude for the next few years. So I guess I should get better at this whole writing home thing._

 _I have to stop for now, because ms. Fair-Shield is ready to go. She got me up at the crack of dawn, like you always try to. You'd like her, I think. Give Edwore my regards, and make sure to scratch Fuzz behind the ears for me._

 _Your loving brother,_

 _Branwe._

...

One foot. Then the other. Trudge. Lift, sink, shift, lift again. The traveling had been grueling. Branwe bore on with the determination of a man whose absolutely _certain_ that the wall in front of him will erode before his own forehead does. Up ahead, Runa led her horse on food, walking like there was no weight on her shoulders at all. Runa's pace was hard to match for several reasons. For one, she was an experienced traveler. She'd made this particular journey every year for the past ten, she'd told him. And before that, she traveled for pleasure all around before, quote unquote, "settling," around Cheydenhall.

Branwe, by contrast, had lived in one place all his life. His days were spent toiling in the fields, or mashing down the grapes, or carrying in the harvests. He could lift a hair amount, and carry it the short distance from the vine to the wagon, but he was struggling under the constant, unabating weight of his backpack. On the few occasions he'd ever been on the road, they were spent in carriages, taking a one or two day travel to reach the Imperial City, or some landmark nearby. He had made the journey to the Starswain mostly on the wings of sheer determination. And chartered a few cart rides when gold had been easier to spend that his own willpower.

Another reason Branwe found this ordeal taxing, was that Runa was just plain taller than he was. She was a giant compared to him, resting easily a head taller, and her legs ended somewhere around his abdomen. Every step she took was half again as large as one of his. Every hill they crested was easier for her to climb. He had to trot to keep up sometimes, which made his backpack jostle, and Runa had laughed at him every time.

And even with all that, she didn't need to be walking like he was. She had her own horse Well, to call this creature a horse was a loose term, he decided. Monster might have been closer to the truth. He was a huge beast, a good several hands taller at the shoulder than any horse Branwe had ever met. Next to Runa he still looked big, and imposing. His shoulder was at the same height as hers. To see past him, Branwe had to look underneath, which Branwe had become sure quickly that he didn't like.

He had a mean look in his eye. Branwe hadn't even known a horse could look mad, but this one did. Runa's tack and saddle for him was all black brushed leather and fur, with metal studs, and... And yes, those were some metal and jeweled skulls on the bridle, in fact. The horse himself was black. Big hooves, dazzlingly long mane of brushed waves, powerful muscles locked under his skin like pistons.

Branwe didn't know what breed he was supposed to be, but it looked like it must have been good stock. He was strong, and had an air of intelligence to him to go with his apparent anger. Runa had called him Shadowmere, and Branwe couldn't help but feel the name was _just_ as spooky as the rest of the horse. Yeesh. In just the right lighting, he swore the things eyes flashed red for a second... But... Well, that would be silly.

Runa had talked to Saben about where to get horses locally. There was a stables on their way, though Saben didn't know a thing about horses, so that was as much as he knew about the place. It was about a day's travel away. Runa, to her credit, walked the whole way. And carried a pack, so that Branwe's pathetic attempts to keep up weren't nearly as pathetic. She looked, briefly along the way, like she was going to offer to let him ride Shadowmere, when Branwe was nearly dead, and for dear life needed to stop for a breather.

Her eyes flitted from him, to the horse a few times. Branwe found himself unable to contemplate riding that monster, whose back was up over his head. Thankfully, tnstead Runa claimed that she was getting a little tired too, so it was a good time for a break. He chose to rigidly ignore the possibility that she was humoring him about wanting those breaks, too, and decided to just take her at her word. The ground had never felt softer.

After Branwe's initial collapse on the ground had gone on for long enough that he could breathe again, he sat up. He looked at his map and determined that this leg of the journey, the one he was forced to take on foot at a horse's pace, was easy traveling, as traveling went. It was still nice weather along these roads. It was relatively flat, well-groomed, and the occasional imperial patrol left it feeling safe and free of highwaymen.

Once they did get the the stables, Runa bought the horse outright. She had an astonishing amount of coin to throw around, it seemed. She was pleasant, and made polite conversation with the ostler, and asked things about the horse's teeth which seemed irrelevant to Branwe, but was apparently important enough to these two to warrant a solid fifteen minute discussion. When they met the animal, it was a shaggy thing. She may have been a pony with body issues more than a horse. Her name was Alameda, the ostler said, and she loved honeysuckle blooms for whatever reason. When Branwe went up to meet her, she only seemed disappointed that he didn't have anything for her before she quickly lost interest in him.

Alameda was fine for this task, though. Branwe was no horseman, but Alameda seemed perfectly happy to just toddle after Shadowmere with little concern. She would veer off the track for whatever looked edible, and tasty, and Branwe didn't really know how to get her to cut that out. But she'd never get too far behind Shadowmere unless told to. One of those old horses, who just doesn't pay much attention any more, having outlived most of her fear. Branwe found her annoying, but also endearing.

The nights they spent mostly too exhausted from traveling to talk about anything but setting up camp, and what they'd seen that day. Branwe wasn't thinking up interview questions when they stopped for the night, he was fantasizing about curling up and sleeping. Runa was running him through the ringer, expecting him to come along on hunts, and pull his weight in camp. This, none of this, was stuff he knew how to do. Mostly he'd followed along and carried the mead skins when Runa had gone hunting. She was impressive, to say the least.

She had two daggers on her which she favoured. Neither one that impressive to look at, but he'd seen how well they could cut, and wasn't about to speak ill of them in front of Runa. She had a warhammer strapped to her back, but that wasn't exactly a good tool for hunting. Mostly she showed him how to make an effective trap, though his had yet to do more than be a nest of knots in the morning when they looked. One night he found himself badly skinning a rabbit, feeling rather foolish and bloody the whole time he did it. He watched Runa do it in one or two convenient little motions. There was no way he was going to be able to match that. It was a good thing there was extra rabbit that night, because most of what he'd done hadn't ended up useable for that night's meal.

None of this was exactly cause for complaint on his part, he knew. He was learning great skills, and when examined with fairness, he really _should_ be carrying his own weight in camp. The only problem was that he was left brain dead the whole day. It was really hitting him how pampered a person he generally was. This little realization was both a cause of gratefulness and grumpiness. Grumpiness, mostly because he just wasn't prepared to take on this much slack, he hadn't had to do it before. And gratefulness, because, wow. Because of where he lived, how he lived, what he did... So many people had done so many things for him. There were things that he would never need to learn, if he chose not to. It was an intense sort of freedom to know that. Society had housed him, and now he was learning a little bit about how.

He was sore every night from different beds, or occasionally from no beds, even, just the cold hard ground and a sleeping roll. His joints were setting in to be creakier and creakier. And it was getting colder as they headed up north, so to keep warm they'd been drinking most every night. Which didn't make Branwe all that capable of steering the topic anywhere he wanted it, and made mornings a lot of fun. Which isn't to say no conversations happened. They talked about art, and magic, and the latest songs and poems. They talked about the places Runa had gone, the things she'd seen.

One night, they stopped in an old ruin – Ayleid, probably. Runa went in to see if it was safe, they did some snooping around for a bit but didn't find anything interesting, and set up camp inside. It was early for them on this schedule, and by some amazing trick of the conditioning going on around here, Branwe had energy that night. They'd gotten through most of the preparation of making camp. Branwe realized, at some point, that he was nervous. He had enough energy to be nervous again. And he new exactly why.

"So," he began, his eyes squeezed shut as he dove headlong into the conversation they _hadn't_ been having for the past week or so of traveling together. "Can we talk about Nerella tonight?" he asked. "And how you were raised by the Drabonborn?"

She looked at him not even attempting to hide her amusement, her head rolling from where it had been before to lock lazily onto him. "I was wondering when you were going to remember," she laughed. "Look, it isn't as if it that big of a deal," said Runa, chuckling dismissively. Her kind eyes lit with cheer, the warmth of the fire, and just a touch of the fogginess of mead. Her accent rolled her words more pronouncedly when she drank. There was something in it, like a dance. The Nord tongue was an old one, and when heard, evoked images, sensations of dread, and harsh snowstorms. To the Nords, everything was a battle, sometimes even standing in one place against the harshness of the wind and snow. The battle was in rolling with the buffets, knowing when to lean in and stand your ground, and when to lean aside to another gust. During her time in Cyrodiil, Runa's voice had clearly flattened to the Imperial one, for the most part. Imperials like him, whose accent bespoke only of taking an unordered world, and setting it to order. The Empire spoke in words. Words which could be written down, and read by any other man to retain their same meaning. Imperial words had to be plain, to be more like crates which carried meaning from one place to another. Nord words felt like a briefly exposed bit of a man's soul, which would waft tantalizing in the air to tempt pour souls like Branwe into catching another glimpse.

"She was just mama to me," continued Runa. She looked down on Branwe, a little hazily, a mind filled with fuzz struggling to find a position where she could think about maintaining it as little as possible.

"Not a big deal?" Branwe heard himself exclaim. He swung forward into a lean, grasping onto his knees until the vertigo of that movement passed. "You're talking about Nerella the Calm! Walker of Shadows, the Arrow's Dirge, Slayer... f-friggin' _Dragonborn_ for eight's sakes!" he blurted. Runa had started laughing at him before he'd finished speaking. He teetered slightly as he glared at her. "Seriously! There's nothing not a big deal about that!"

"I know, I know... It's not that she wasn't incredible, I know, I know..." she answered, her tone still filled with that strange Nord laughter. The kind of laughter that wove in and out of her words, colouring them but not stopping them, just like she'd lean out of a blizzard. Not the kind of fit that backed you up and took you hostage, preventing you from speaking until it subsided. She leaned back on the pelt she'd draped over the stone alcove she was sitting in. She batted some of her blonde hair aside, which smudged one of the three strips of war paint on her face. Her grin was wide and drunken as she lazily spoke.

"She was... I mean she was mama. Of course she was incredible. You just seem to be so excited about it," she said. "It's rare, I suppose. I guess I haven't been recognized since I left Skyrim, haven't dealt with this type of enthusiasm about her before."

"Why did you keep it a secret that you knew her, that you were her daughter!" asked Brinwe, agog. Runa smiled at him, this time charitably.

"If you were asking this sort of question to most any other Nord, they might take offense at it. A Nord honours his family, and if he doesn't speak of them, then there's usually a reason for it."

Branwe stopped, and paled a few shades. "Oh, I'm terribly... that is, I didn't mean to... I just wanted to kn... I'm so-" Runa was laughing again, and waved him to silence.

"I said most any other Nords, didn't I, boy?" she said. "I don't much mind talking about the past, myself. I simply don't offer it to share most times," Her voice had gotten more sombre and serious as she spoke. Less musical, almost more regal. "I left Skyrim in no small part because lots of people did recognize me. And lots of people didn't like Mama," said Runa sadly. "She made of very unpopular decisions."

"But she was _Nerella_ the _Calm_!" protested Branwe. "What's not to like? She saved the world! She was Nerella, the bloody Calm!"

"Yes, mama was Nerella the Calm," said Runa, her voice slowing. " _Hero of Skyrim, and all of Tamriel._

" _Hero of Jorvaskir_ ,

" _Reclaimer of the White Phial_ ,

" _Thane of All Courts_ ,

" _The Crystal Voiced Bard_ ,

" _Slayer of Stormcloaks,_

" _Chosen of Akatosh_ ,

" _The Shout from the Shadows_ ,

" _Master of the Thieves Guild_ ,

" _Listener of the Brotherhood_ ,

" _Archmage of the College at Winterhold_ ,

" _Harbinger of the Companions_ ,

" _Vanquisher of Alduin_ ,

" _The Last Dragonborn_ ,

" _Saviour of Sovngarde_."

Branwe felt the weight of these titles for the first time, hearing Runa say them. These weren't even all the titles the Nords of Skyrim had heaped upon her. Hearing them spoken aloud for the first time... each was was a heavy plaque in the Nord ways. One which had to be remembered, carried with you at all times. 'Nerella the Calm' had always seemed to be enough. The rest had always seemed to Branwe to be just a bunch of lofty stuff jammed in there to make her seem more impressive. Just letters on a page, once again. But this was the Nord course; meaning was in the voice. They still carried with them the way of the Thu'um, from ancient times. Even those who had lost it, its roots were part of their culture. Each title, each moniker... It was a medal. A medal the Nord people, collectively and linguistically had placed around the hero's neck. He'd never heard a true Nord, from Skyrim proper, list off all these titles. He finally understood that this was respect, not pomp.

This was how the Nords remembered her. Not from books, but from people telling people things like these. Someone might only remember a few. There were a lot of titles, after all, and each one was its own small story. She had vanquished Alduin, true, but she had also chosen a side in a bloody and brutal civil war. A side which had outlawed the Nords' ancestral god, and brought Skyrim back into the fold of the empire. And place, which, honestly, they had never truly been satisfied with.

There was a long silence between him and Runa as this understanding and awe set in. Branwe breathed in deeply, smelling the sweet woodsmoke and frost-bitten air wafting into the ruin. Nerella the Calm was who she was to him, but to anyone else, she might have been best remembered as the Listener of the Brotherhood, which wasn't the kind of legacy that inspires love. Runa sized him up until she was satisfied with his silence.

"What did you want to know?" she asked, taking another drink of her mead. Her eyes were alert now. She'd either sobered up, or she'd been giving in to drunkenness more than she had to. Branwe found himself suddenly on the very unhappy reverse of what he'd thought had been the case; he was a fair bit drunker than she.

"I... Where to start..." he breathed, still trying to regain himself. He felt like someone as puny and small as he couldn't possibly be equal to the task of telling this tale. Of getting the details of the life of someone so unbelievably spectacular. He didn't feel good enough. All those titles of hers, and suddenly she seemed like a giant again, and he was crushed under her grandeur. How was he supposed to get it right, when he couldn't even comfortably call her anything less than "Nerella the Calm." That, too, was a title, not a name. Not the actual flavour. That was what someone else had decided to call her. He had to start from scratch to get this right. He had to pick his own angle. He had no idea how to do that.

He bit down hard on his lip, forcing that thought away by replacing it with the sting of his teeth. He turned to his side, and snatched up his knapsack, pawing through it for his notes. Several books, his writing pouch, and many bent scraps of paper in an untidy heap. He should have organized this mess first, he thought ruefully. He could have been at least a little prepared for this. This was the whole reason here was here, after all, wasn't it? He leaned forward to get a better look so he could read what was on each piece of paper and find the relevant ones. It was dark, and hard to read by firelight. Plus he was feeling the mead when he tried to focus on the tiny little letters. He squinted, and leaned in further As he did so, his lute slipped up his back, and its neck hit him in the back of the head. He flinched and rubbed it, quickly looking to Runa to see her reaction to this.

The only change in her expression from last time was a very slight smile softening her whole face, registering a slight amusement at his little accident and absolutely nothing more. She was still watching him calmly. A sort of chilly, passive keenness to her. Golden firelight licked at her features, making her almost glow with a velveteen sheen. She didn't look threatening exactly, but she certainly didn't seem harmless any more. Like there was something inherently powerful within her that flowed inside. Right now, it was flowing close to the surface. Branwe found it incredibly off putting. Not wanting to break eye contact with her, suddenly fearful of what might happen if he didn't watch her, he pulled out his notebook and writing kit.

"How about you start with..." he began, the cold chill running down his spine serving to sober him up. He slowly, sightlessly, and methodically, began prepping his quill and ink. Her eyes were on his hands. Again, amused. Possibly at his choice of writing implement. Possibly at his methods. Her eyebrow quirked slightly, and a strange smirk crooked her lips. He felt the urge to hide his hands from her strangely hungry eyes, but resisted. "What was it like growing up with her as your mother?"

Runa's eyes slid up to his again. Whatever she was seeing, it felt like it must have been a great deal more than he saw in hers. The stone alcove she was sitting in was starting to seem more and more like a throne, somehow. He realized for the first time just how much higher up she was than he, she on her stone, and he on his stump.

"She wasn't my mother," said Runa.

"What? But I thought you said..."

"She was mama. My mother was another woman."

"O-oh... _Oh_. Nerella and another... Right, that was in here..." said Branwe, flipping through his notes again. "Something... Started with an s... Sss... Sss... Seeeeerrana?" he asked, eyes darting back to Runa's. Runa was shaking her head.

"No, no, not Serana either. Serana was Mama's traveling companion, and lover. But Serana was Serana. Mama was mama. Aela was Aela, and my mother's name was Senna."

"...Senna?" asked Branwe. "I've never... even..."

"Most people haven't," interrupted Runa smoothly. "She doesn't play a big part in any of the stories. She was the one who raised us, mostly, my brother Hroar and me."

"How did they meet?"

"Mother was a priestess of Dibella, out in Markarth. Mama told me that she'd met her after a night of drinking with Sanguine."

"So she really met...?"

"That's how the story goes. She'd met quite a few Daedra, as she told it."

Runa kelp talking, but Branwe's mind went blank for a solid three seconds. "Wait, wait, back up," he said. "Did she really talk to the Daedra?"

Runa smiled condescendingly. "She kept three separate houses she built. One for her family, one for her experiments, and one for... well, whatever else you might need a house for, I guess. She owned other property of course, a home in each of the major Holds at the time, I think she had a home she grew with her own magic somewhere near Riften... There was a room in her laboratory that we weren't allowed to go into even when she let us visit to see what she was working on. She kept the Black Books of Hermaes Mora in there, as well as some of her other dangerous trophies," said Runa. "One time, when Hroar begged and begged to have mama show him some magic, she summoned a Dremora with the flick of a wrist, just casually as if it was nothing. In parting," laughed Runa as she remembered it suddenly, "She told the Dremora to say hi to Hermaes Mora for her, to which he responded that Azura was looking for her."

"I... That has to be a joke..." gaped Branwe.

"Could be. But Hroar and I were the only ones there to play the joke on," said Runa. "And we didn't get it at all, so I have only to assume it's real," said Runa.

"Anyway," she continued her former train of thought. "Mama didn't know she'd been drinking with Sanguine, yet. She only knew she'd had a drinking contest in Whiterun. She ended up coming to, three days later, into a mess of a Dibellan Temple. Yelling at her until she woke up was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen."

Branwe laughed, lulled along by Runa's smile at the recollection. "And that was Senna?" he clarified.

"That was Senna," agreed Runa with a gracious nod of her head. "Mama courted her for some time, even decided to find the Sybil of Dibella just to stay near her. And besides, she was rich, Dragonborn, and interested. Mother asked her to marry her nearly as soon as she saw the amulet of Mara 'round her neck."

"So what happened with Senna, if Serana was in the picture?" asked Branwe. Runa shrugged.

"These things happen," she said. "It was all before I was around, you see. Serana and mama were lovers before I was even adopted. Mama and mother tried to make things work, but, well... Other things got in their way."

"No epic tale for this one?" asked Branwe jokingly. Runa shrugged again, though this time he Branwe noticed there was something of a nervousness to the gesture. Had it been there before?

"I guess that's why so few people know about mother. There aren't really any epic tales about her, or even ones that include her," said Runa. "She was a dutiful wife, and a loving mother. She did everything she was supposed to, but she wasn't a hero or a dragonslayer. She raised two children, saw to mama's houses and affairs, made her rich selling off the valuables they didn't want to keep. But she never did anything like saving a town from being swallowed by a magical rift. She simply doesn't make the cut for most of the tales of mama," said Runa a little sadly. "A noble occupation, motherhood. But not one which garners a great deal of respect from bards and story tellers."

Branwe felt a little queasy. "I'm sorry, that was senseless of me..."

"You're looking for all the details of mama's life," seethed Runa. She was looking off into the distance down the black corridor. More to be looking away than at anything interesting, he felt. She sighed, and shrugged again. "Mother was a part of that. No matter how small a footnote she might have been."

"...So, Nerella left Senna?" asked Branwe cautiously.

"No. Not..." began Runa, struggling for the right word. Her face wrinkled with the effort. She shook her head, and settled. "No. Only in as much as mama spent months at a time doing the things that made her famous, and mother stayed home during those time. Mama left, and came back, and left again. When she was with mother, they were happy enough. But most of mama's life was on the road, mother couldn't share that. Serana was there for that," said Runa. "It wasn't... It wasn't the happiest thing that mother could have had. But it was a happy enough life. Mother had her own lovers, too, and mama understood."


	4. Chapter 4

The harshness of the snowstorm gave way quite suddenly to a warm interior, cozy interior. It smelled of mead, and woodsmoke. A high, pitched roof extended all they way up, nearly black at the top, its rafters casting dancing shadows. Further down, the warm glow of an open hearth, cast its golden light over the establishment. Rustic wooden tables and stools placed around a large bed of coals in the centre of the room. Warm, dry stone flooring around it, and a spit to keep mead and food warm withn.

Branwe was gently, but firmly steered inside. He was teetering slightly, and still so shocked his skin was white as winter. He was brought to a chair, which he was plopped into it rather unceremoniously.

"Skoljar! A cup of your finest for my friend here!" whooped Runa over the noise of chatter. "And a warm damn towel, too, he's a bit messier than I remembered," she added, still in good cheer.

From one of the kegs, an older Nord man turned around. He looked at Runa with a lazy familiarity. His mustache long, and his beard mostly shaven an unkempt. He had wisps of silver hair which ran down from the sides of his head. The top came out like a shining dome. He wore a yellowed and stained apron over a loose shirt and breeches.

"Since when do you bring men all the way out here?" he answered, though without so much as a bat of an eye he turned back to the taps and filled two mugs. "And why's he all covered in blood?" he added as an afterthought.

"Get a drink in him, he'll tell you the story."

"I'll wha...?" asked Branwe, still getting his bearings.

"Shh, boy, a drink first. No one'll fault you that. You've had a big day for a city boy," said Runa, giving him a firm slap on the shoulder. He didn't really react to it, but he did look up with pleading and confused eyes at Skoljar when his drink was placed in his hands. Among Nords, most everyone looks small. But Branwe looked even smaller, even for a Bosmer, at that moment.

"Take a drink now," said Skoljar warily to the little blood covered, bug-eyed boy staring helplessly at him. Branwe looked down at his cup, and seemed to recognize it was there for the first time. Gingerly, he picked it up and put it to his lips, but once it was there, he began drinking it down about as fast as he could, spilling everywhere in the process. Runa cheered, and raised her own glass, a few of the other Nords in the place raised theirs in response to Runa. In fact, some of the men and women at the nearby tables were starting to look at the spectacle.

"Take it easy there, boy," warned Skoljar. "You'll end up very sticky you keep like that."

Branwe slammed down the mug, and took a few deep breaths.

"He's almost back," sniggered Runa. "One more ought to do it.

"Noooo, no more..." moaned Branwe, short of breath and only half aware of what exactly he was protesting.

"One more, one more," insisted Runa, signaling Skoljar.

"You normally get your way 'round here, but this lad looks like he's going to hurt himself if you do," said Skoljar cautiosly.

"You're no fun, old man," said Runa. She practically stuck her tongue at Skoljar. "He's had a hard day, is all. City-boy's first run in with a bear!" said Runa, leaning forward and shaking Branwe by the shoulder as she said it, in a sort of heckling pride.

"A bear, eh?" said Skoljar, his interest finally piqued. His massive bushy eyebrow arched, and his mustache settled onto one side of his face more than the other as he smirked slightly. He took the Mug Branwe had slammed on the table, and did fill it. He walked stiffly back, and brought it to Branwe, once again placing the mug directly in his hands. Branwe seemed to clutch it more instinctively than consciously.

"I remember my first go with a bear," began Skoljar helpfully, trying to get the ball rolling. He sat down, straddling the back of the chair at the table with Branwe. "It was a _big_ beast," he said, illustrating with his hands. "The size of a good, solid ox. But the winter was hard that year, or it wouldn't have come so near town. I found it one night going after the honey in our apiaries. I was six, seven years old. Hardly the size of its right arm. Up on his hind legs, the roof of three of our hives ripped right off, digging into it like a glutton." He let out a wheezing laugh at the memory, his eyes clouding over in recall. "You've never heard messy eating until you hear the slurping and grunting of a bear really _eating_ honey.

"I didn't know what to do. Pa was out front, but the thing had eaten a great deal of our stocks already. I sat there frozen until it started in on the fourth. Decided I had to scare it off," said Skoljar. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "The folly of youth. So, I grabbed the nearest thing by, and charged it down, _screaming_ bloody murder. Aaaagh! Arrrgh! Yeeeaagh!" he cried out, swinging an invisible weapon over his head. "Didn't even know what I had. I felt like a dman fool when I realized it was a _bucket!_ Running, and screaming, flailing, and all that while a bucket swinging wildly above my head!" laughed Skoljar, his demonstration of the gesture coming down slowly. It landed with him spinning his finger in a couple of circles next to his head. Runa and the other Nords watching the scene laughed heartily. He dropped both hands onto the back of the chair with a clap, and sighed pleasantly. "The damn thing must've been more confused than scared, but it ran all the same!" said Skoljar, wiping at his eye.

Branwe had calmed down some, though he was still tense enough he could be used as a cheese wire. He was watching Skoljar, probably more because he didn't really know where else to look than for any other reason.

"Your bear incident, boy? Why don't you tell us about it," said Skoljar. A few others had turned their chairs to get a better view. Runa squeezed Branwe's shoulder firmly, then released it, and went to sit down across from him.

Branwe looked around, still a little confused and distant.

"A bear attacked camp. I stabbed it..." he said, dazed. Skoljar winced, and looked over to Runa, who was shaking her head and laughing under her breath.

"You city folk," she muttered. "Come on, Bran, you're a bard, for Talos' sake. You can weave a better tale than that."

Branwe blinked twice. "I... But... It's just a bear."

Runa looked over at Skoljar with a knowing smile, which he returned.

"Boy," said Skoljar. "They're all just bears."

"...What?"

"What he means is," said Runa, leaning her elbows onto the table. "Every story, every song, every tale... It was just someone fending off a bear attack. Or someone falling into a hole. Or someone hitting someone else with a sword. Stories are what we make up of the events, not the events themselves. Stop thinking like an imperial, and tell the story, boy!" she said, raising her glass to accent her point. "What was it like to be there! Bring us the smells, the feeling, the fear, the triumph. You slew a bear, Bran, tells us about the damn thing!" Her words were punctuated by a cheer being raised, and mugs being raised in the air.

Branwe suddenly found himself to be very on the spot. The centre of attention. What every bard wanted, and mostly what he wanted, but now he was... He wasn't singing someone else's words. He was having to make his own. He looked into Runa's dark brown eyes for something to ground him. She was smiling encouragingly at him. She ducked her chin, and raised her eyebrows, urging him on. Suddenly, all at once, he felt the mead warming his blood, and he felt the caked, drying bear's blood on him like a sort of a trophy. He reached up with one hand and touched it, and grinned breathlessly. This was a story. This was a story, and it was _his_ story. He nodded, the thoughts coming back to him in a clear order. He downed the last of his mead, this time most of it actually making it into his mouth.

"We'd just finished breakfast, and were packing up camp for to keep traveling up here from the capitol," he began. "Runa was feeding the horses while I filled the water skins," he said. Yes, setting, and context. A story needed a place of normalcy to start. What else? Damn it, Branwe, you know this!

"The snow had just started an hour or so ago, and I hadn't really packed for the snow very well. I knew it was cold in the north, but I didn't realize that it would be this cold, this early in the season. So there I was, shivering half to death, sticking my hands in freezing cold water to fill the skins, when I heard Runa cry out. I didn't catch what she said, the wind was too loud. I looked over at her and she was jumping up and down, waving her hands wildly. I-I thought she was trying to hurry me up!" said Branwe, laughing slightly. Those listening laughed too, though he could tell it was more of a courtesy laugh than anything else. Several in the tap-house had turned back to their conversations long since, though a few remained. Runa and Skoljar were dutifully paying him heed.

"Anyway, I glared at her, went back to what I was doing," he said, letting himself feel the indignation all over again. "She'd been hurrying me about packing up, about setting up, about walking... I decided that here, in the freezing cold snow, with my hands like ice-cubes, I was going to go at my own bloody pace," he said, nodding his strength and slamming his cup down.

"A moment later, _whhhhp_!" he said, throwing his hand beside his head. "An arrow whizzes right past me, sticking into the ground of the river and splashing in the face!" Runa, for her part, laughed.

"You weren't coming! I needed to get your attention somehow!" she protested.

"It worked!" cried Branwe. "I fell right into the river, I was so surprised!"

Again, Runa was laughing. She covered her eyes, and pounded on the table with her free hand as Skoljar and the others' laughter rose, rolling over him like a warm tide.

"Gods, your face when you did!" she said around her roars. "I thought your eyes were going to pop right out of your head, and just float there as to fell back into the water! You splashed around there like a horker on its back, kicking and flailing!" she said, hardly able to speak with her laughter. The sound of the tavern was full. There the wood on the walls was filled with uproarious cheer. And here was Branwe, his clumsy hijinks, adding to that. He felt... He felt like a part of something.

He shook his head, and tried to get back to the story. "Yeah, well it was cold, and slippery as hell! And you just tried to _shoot_ me!" he cried.

"I did not!"

" _I_ didn't know that! Anyway, I couldn't get out on my own, so down comes Runa, _dun, dur un, dur un_ , right down the hill at a gallop towards me. Then she just stops, and starts shooting arrows. All this time, I still don't know where's a freaking _bear_ eight feet behind me!"

" _How_ close?" exclaimed one of the Nords at a nearby table.

"Close. Very close," assured Branwe, using his hands to push the imaginary bear away from him. "I know because as soon as I actually managed to get out of the water and look, there was several hundred pounds of angry, wet fur, sticking with arrows, and it knocked me right back down into the water!"

"Ouch!" said the man. "Have another mead, warm your bones, boy!" said the man, once again, gesturing to Skoljar, who rolled his eyes, and stalked off to get another mug.

"Anyway, there I am, pinned under a bear who already has eight of Runa's arrows in it, and all I have on my are two water skins, and my eating dagger! Numb and cold as a... a..."

"Frost-witch's tit," supplied Runa helpfully.

"Frost-witch's—uh... yes. That..." said Branwe, blushing furiously. "As a frost-witch's... ahem..." This got even more laughter.

"So what do I do? Not the sensible thing of pulling out my dagger. I clock the bear in the head with what I already had in my had; the water skins." He snapped his hand against the side of the invisible bear's head. "And the _boosh_! They proceeded to explode, and pour water all over me. I can't see a thing, so I'm on my back, numb all over most of me, flailing madly. I grappled blind, and managed to get hold one of Runa's arrows. It was in there pretty deep, but a good yank had it free of the monster's thick hide, and just as the thing's about to swipe me and create a smear formerly-known-as-Branwe, I _plunged_ it into his neck, _sh-ck!_ And _rrrrripped_ it aside. And, well," he said, looking himself up and down. "I got a bit messy in the process..." he said, gesturing to the brown and red coating of blood which mostly covered him.

"It collapsed on top of me. Thank the gods it fell mostly on my legs, or I wouldn't have been able to breathe. Runa had to spend nearly half an hour tying it to the horses to they could drag the damn thing off of me!"

"It wasn't that long!" hollared Runa.

"Sure felt like it from under the bear, in the river!" laughed Branwe.

Skoljar returned with Branwe's drink. There was a twinkle in his eye, and the curve of the man's mustache told Branwe he was smiling. A tale told. Perhaps not _well_ told, but told. It felt right. Branwe raised the mug to Skoljar in thanks. In return, he smiled and tipped his head. Branwe drank deeply, feeling as if, for the first time, he'd earned it. He'd been drunk before, he'd just never felt like... Well, like he'd earned it quite like this.

"So did you keep any pieces of it? You know, as a trophy?" asked Skoljar.

"Are you kidding?" said Runa. "We already had it tied, I took an hour so we could haul it onto a sled. Once Bran was feeling more alive, and less like an icicle, I was going to make him skin the breast so he'd stop complaining of the cold. Silly Bosmer packed for Cheydenhall's autumn, not Bruma's. A trophy, and a coat!"

This got the attention of a few of the younger patrons. There were general noises of interest, and one or two of them even got up to look out the window at the carcass.

"Ah, you're in good hands, boy." said Skoljar, approvingly, slapping Branwe on the shoulder. He nearly flew off his chair at the force of Skoljar's hand, but thankfully all he did was crumple instead. "Whatever you've done to get this one on your side, you've done well. Mead's on the house tonight."

"Nonsense, Skoljar, I pay my way, you know that," quipped Runa.

"Aye, and who said anything about _your_ mead? I'm talking to your young hero here!" answered Skoljar tauntingly, shaking Branwe by the shoulder he still held. Branwe felt like a ragdoll, and was actually lifted off his own rear briefly with the gesture.

"I expect the two of you will want to stay for a time?" asked Skoljar.

"Just tonight," answered Runa. "Two beds, then we're off in the morning."

"Oh? You usually spend the full winter down here. What's changed?"

"We're off...?" asked Branwe, a horror creeping back into him as he imagined taking to the road again. Runa ignored his little voice, and continued speaking to Skoljar.

"We may be back some time soon. But for now, I've got a ruin to look into."

"Ah, finally found whatever it is you've been looking for in all those books of yours?" asked Skoljar. Branwe blinked, and looked over at Runa curiously. She frowned slightly at Skoljar, but it was wiped from her face almost immediately.

"Perhaps," she said. "I won't know until I have a look at those ruins."

"Well, whatever it is, I wish you luck like I always do," said Skoljar.

"Aye, and you have my thanks for it, old man," she said, smiling again as he nodded to the both of them, and went back to the bar to wipe down.

A silence took hold between the two of them. Branwe listened vaguely in the background as conversation resumed. Two of the youngest came back inside from their examination of Branwe's bear, both trying to sound impressively unimpressed. Most of them were more of the same; burly men and women telling oversold stories about things that happened to them. The stories themselves weren't that interesting, but the listeners seemed transfixed. It was all in the telling. And even if only for a moment, Branwe'd been a part of it.

He tried to catch the eye of the woman who'd managed to bring him on to that stage, or into that fold, or however the Nords would think of it. But it gradually became clear to Branwe that Runa was very aware, and purposefully returning his look. He was trying to make eye-contact with her, and she was refusing to do so. Branwe took the towel he'd been brought some time ago; it was cooled now, but still damp, and he was still covered in bear's blood. He began wiping it off his face.

"I didn't know you were a big reader," began Branwe from behind his towel. He rubbed away at a dried chunk which had constricted his eyebrow, and her silence persisted. Runa didn't look at him, her face tightening back into a frown. Branwe smiled teasingly as he began to work off the stain from his neck. "You've been so disdainful of my books, I wouldn't have guessed."

"Books are what they are," said Runa. "I'm not _disdainful_ of books. I just don't put as much stock in them as you Imperials. They're a place to start, but not much more," she said.

"So what are you looking for?"

Runa paused, shifted uncomfortably, and seemed as if she were about to simply refuse to answer. But Branwe had picked up a few things from her; he filled the silence with his unremitting curiosity. She blanched under it, and finally relented.

"A cave," she said. Though she tried to leave it at that, she didn't seem to be willing to undergo his curiosity again. "There's a cave to the west of here, I think it holds an Ayleid ruin called Rielle. A few hundred years ago, nothing interesting. Excavators and surveyors were there after the place had already been looted clean. Recently, though..." she said, pulling out from one of her satchels a thin, relatively new volume. Despite its age, it was worn, its pages taken poor care of, bent and chewed by time. She dropped it carelessly onto the table. Branwe looked it over. It was called, simply, 'Welkynd Stones.' There was a very old, and very fine, and very well-used bookmark in the volume. He opened to the paged indicated. There was one paragraph circled.

" _Though experts believe Ailiie to be an isolated instance, there are still some who speculate that the technique of using the Welkynd stones' inherent magical resonance to uphold or power enchantment was commonplace in Ayleid society. We see documented cases of this in lighting fixtures which have gone dark years after Welkynd stones have been removed from other places within ruins. Perhaps they were also used for more mundane wards, such as walls, or long-term containment, or other types of Ayleid structures. Such a theory does have some evidence to substantiate it, although it is thin. For example, in numerous Ayleid ruins, there have been documented cases of certain areas within the ruins being dramatically better preserved, both simply from the exposure to the elements, and also from looting._ "

Branwe looked up at Runa. This had not answered his question at all, and she had at least a little more explaining to do if she was going to get that far. "Huh?" was all he said. Runa rolled her eyes.

"I think that perhaps this ruin, which was looted clean of all the Welkynd stones ages ago, may have... Opened up," said Runa. She tossed her head side to side as she mulled her next words. "Now that the stones are gone, and have been for a long time, perhaps whatever enchantments were keeping the place closed are worn though. Used up."

"What do you hope to find in there, though?"

Her hesitation was palpable. She opened her mouth to speak, and stopped as if suddenly frozen. Her eyes were wide, and she snapped her mouth shut before rigidly answering. "...Something important."

"...Well, that's really... clarifying."

"Look, it's not... It's just that..." Runa gritted her teeth again, and set down her drink. "I don't know what I'm looking for exactly. But... I don't want to talk about what I'm hoping to find there, all right?"

Branwe frowned, a little hurt. She'd been so open with him up to now, so willing to share her stories, her culture, her memories. He'd sort of forgotten they weren't long friends. She was a source for information on her mama. And she didn't trust him with everything. That should have been fine, but it still stung a little.

"Oh, okay," he said, nodded, and pulling his drink to his mouth. Runa look like she was about to add something to that, to assuage her own guilt about shutting him down. But she stopped herself, and turned away. The silence between them lasted until Runa stood up from the table. She bowed her head slightly.

"I'm going to bed," she said before she retired to her room. She turned and paused momentarily only to inform him, "I'm going to be leaving at dawn... You're still welcome to come along, but I won't wait for you," she said before resuming her way back.

He was still chilled, and filthy, so he signaled to Skoljar, who came over to him attentively.

"What do you need, brother?" he asked. For a moment, Branwe was taken aback by this. Skoljar was smiling at him in a friendly manner, and calling him familiarly.

"I... Just... " began Branwe, trying to regain his train of thought. "Do you have the facilities to draw up a bath?" asked Branwe. Skoljar's smile faded to the much more familiar shade of a Nord looking at an outsider.

"Aye, we bathe here on occasion," said Skoljar, just short of harshly. Branwe backpedaled hard.

"Oh, no, I didn't mean to imply that—I just didn't want to assume—I'm terribly sorry, I seem to've inadvertently been an ass again... It's just that I'm a mess, and I have to be out on the road again tomorrow, and... You're laughing at me."

"Aye, sorry lad," said Skoljar. "Most of your types rise to the bait, and you backed down so much I thought your spine would snap," he said. "Runa was right about you, you're trying, I'll give you that. But you're trying too damn hard."

"Wait, when did you talk to Runa? We've only just gotten here!"

"While you were telling your tale, boy. You got wrapped up in it," said Skoljar approvingly. He broke eye-contact for a moment, and looked over at a younger man who was stoking the fire. "Bruljar, a bath for our guest here. Do you need any scented candles, or specialty soaps?"

"Oh, actually if you could—Ah. No, just hot water and whatever soap to scrub with is fine," said Branwe. "I mean... if you've _got_ the other stuff..."

"I was joking."

"But I'm ever hopeful." This got Skoljar to laugh again.

"That, that right there. That's what most city-folk won't do. A simple joke. They're either afraid of us, or think we're uncivilized, or think we can't take a joke that doesn't have Dibella's tit right there in it. You're all right, boy. What's your name, anyway?"

"Branwe Willowshade."

"Branwe?" asked Skoljar with a furrowed brow. "Doesn't sound much like any Bosmer name I know of."

"No, it's actually from Altmer tradition," admitted Branwe.

"A foundling?" asked Skoljar vaguely.

"No, I'm just one of those cosmopolitan mutts," waved Branwe. "Third generation living in the Imperial City. Or near it, anyway. Between there and Skingraad. Names sorta lose their potency and meaning. My sister's name is Rithleen, from Redgaurd course. My parents just didn't really care to keep a single cultural identity, I guess," said Branwe with a shrug. "'We're all just men and mer,' was something father said a lot."

"Your father sounds like a wise man, even if it's a little sad to lose such roots. The Bosmer have a very proud heritage, a noble people," said Skoljar, still approvingly.

"Considering I've hardly even held a bow, let alone gone hunting, I don't really... I mean, I belong to the Bosmer about as much as I belong to the Nords, really," said Branwe. He'd said something similar to that about a hundred times before, but this time the words felt like lines from a script. When he said them previously, he'd never felt a twinge. Somehow saying it to this old man, who was Nord through and through, he felt... Sad. For the first time, he felt like maybe he'd missed out on something, rather than like he'd been freed of something. Like he'd ostracized himself. Missed out on being Bosmer, rather than being allowed to be whatever he was. Skoljar's old, worn face was carved by years of knowing who he is, and who his people are. The shapes of his wrinkles all set into place and comfortable. After all, the voice that came out of his mouth was the one you thought would come out when you saw him. Branwe envied him slightly. Maybe it was the drink; he never drank this much, and now he was doing it every damn night just to keep warm. Maybe it was the company; he did have people he felt at home with, even if it was never couched that way in his youth. People who were _his_ people. Though part of what bound them together like that was the dismissal of such bonds, so it was a lonely sort of connection even still. Maybe it was the cold up here, and the lack of sun getting to him, just casting a gloom. He didn't know.

Bruljar appeared at their table, suddenly, breaking him from his revere. "Your bath," he said simply. Branwe started slightly at the roughness of the man's voice. Southern Skyrim, south east, even. Probably from the Rift. A very different accent than Runa's or Skoljar. More no nonsense, less rolling with the buffets of the wind. More powering, or cutting through them forcefully. It was a terse accent. Branwe'd heard it before, but never in such stark contrast. He was starting to get a feel for just how big the place must have been, to house such desperate accents so readily. And to think, Rithleen couldn't tell the accents of any Nords apart.

"It's ready," said Bruljar impatiently.

"Oh, right, oh, yes. Sorry, zoned out there a moment. Thanks for the talk, and the mead, sir."

"It's Skoljar to you, boy. It's always Skoljar."

Branwe smiled in spite of himself, and blushed. "Then, thanks, Skoljar. I'm going to make it a point to come back up here some time," said Branwe as he walked away. He shivered slightly as he walked further from the hearth. "Though I might pathetically decide to make the trek by carriage next time..." he added.


	5. Chapter 5

_Dear Rithleen._

 _Short letter this time too. Very drunk. Very tired. We're headed off into the mountains out of Bruma tomorrow morning and I gotta get some sleep. I rode a horse for the first time! She's nice. Her name's Amaelediae - I don't know how to spell her name. She likes to eat flowers, though._

 _Is Fuzz eating enough? He sometimes doesn't when it gets cold. Oh, and tell Edwore he was right. Thank him for the straps, the backpack would have killed me already if he didn't fix them. Just don't let him do his stupid 'I told you so' dance. I hate that._

 _I'll write again soon. I'll tell you about the time I killed a bear when I get home._

 _-Branwe_

 _..._

"Did it get colder somehow? I swear it got colder..." said Branwe, bundling up into his new furs. He was eternally grateful he had them, because he probably would have died of exposure if that bear hadn't attack him. Though his actual furs were still at the taphouse, Skoljar had sold him some to tide him over until the leather cured.

"It's going to keep doing that," warned Runa over the sound of the wind. "We're going up hill now. Try to keep all your fingers and toes." They'd left their horses at the stables with Skoljar. When they did, Runa made some comment about Branwe's 'meadow foal' not being up to the trek. He had to agree. Steep, icy slopes. Visibility less than a foot in front of you with the snow and the constant slipping... Though her tone had suggested it was _his_ horse who couldn't have made it. He didn't know a horse who could have. Well, actually... remembering Shadowmere, he wasn't sure... But still, even he had hooves...

They crested hill after hill, so many times that Branwe had lost the will to be enthusiastic about nearing the top any more. More climbs just came after it. His face burned. Each new flake that hit it was like a knife of ice cutting across his skin. His fingers were so frozen that they ceased to hurt any more. The growling from his stomach has gradually morphed into a persistent sickly clench. The snow was up to his knees, and each step was a test of endurance for him. He fell into so many times he'd stopped counting. He was recovering from another such stumble when good news finally came.

It was heralded by Runa cheering loudly out of sight. He couldn't catch her words over the cutting howls of the wind. At first he'd thought she was crying out, maybe in pain. But before his dull wits returned to him enough to even contemplate rushing to see what was wrong, he saw her face. Rosy and frosted, plastered with a huge smile as she looked downhill at him. He groaned, and kept moving. She galloped over the already packed down snow, and reached a thickly-dressed hand down towards him to help him over the last patch. Her smile still fixed, eyes wide and brilliant, she directed his gaze to a hold in the ground up ahead. He stood unsteadily in the wind, and unimpressed.

Skeptically, Branwe looked at Runa. She was very pleased with herself, and kept looking back and forth between him and the hole.

"This is the place!" she said excitedly.

"Fine," he said, brushing past her. "Can we have a fire?"

"Okay, so it isn't that impressive," said Runa, leaning in so she didn't have to shout so loudly as she walked next to the trudging Branwe. "Most of the actual structure is underground. But this is where we've been going this whole time. We're here!"

"Horay. Can we please have a fire?" asked Branwe, unmoved. Runa rolled her eyes dramatically, and sighed.

"Yes, we can have a fire," she said. "Honestly, would it kill you to muster up at least a little excitement?"

"It's might. Excitement makes you colder, doesn't it?"

"You big baby," chided Runa as they came to the lip of the hole. It was snow-covered stairs, stone underneath. They had to be negotiated quite carefully, as they were slipperier than the whole rest of the trek had been combined. Runa was steadfast in helping him climb down, even though he slipped gracelessly. After a spiral or two, though, the stairs were just bare, dry stone. Of fine make, if weathered by sheer age. Wearied to the bone, when he got to the bottom, Branwe practically collapsed, his pack the only thing holding him from a fully prone pose.

It wasn't warm inside, nor was it exactly quiet. But after having wind buffeting at his ears for hours, and snow melting down his neck and in his hair, it was almost like being swaddled in a soft blanket. He felt himself drifting to sleep on the spot.

Runa tugged at his pack between removing her own scarf and her coat. "No, no, a break you can have," she scolded. "But no sleeping until you're warm, and you've had a hot meal in you." She pulled out the firewood she'd made him carry, and the flint and steed from his pack. Biting at the fingers of her gloves, she tore them off, down to her bare hands, and began to arrange the logs with ease of practice. A soothing clack, clack, clack in the dark, echoing space.

"Ah, ah," said Runa, startling Branwe's eyes back open. "No sleeping."

"W'sn't sl'p'n..." retorted Branwe.

"Ri-ight. Why don't you tell me about your thesis so far while I make us lunch?" she asked, all of her external layers now laid out. "What more do you need to know?" she asked.

His thesis. Yes. That was a thing, wasn't it? His mind had been occupied with merely keeping warm. Every iota of his self had been wrapped up in finding whatever reserves he didn't know he had just to take the next step. Then the next after that. For so what felt like so long, he'd all but forgotten about the thesis.

"Thesis..." he said, tasting the word again. He tried to close his eyes to think, but when he did, his head drooped. He pulled in a large gulp of breath to try to wake up again. "I need... a timeline?" he finished, less than certainly.

"A timeline..." prompted Runa, as the familiar scraping sound from her hands gave way to sparks.

"A timeline..." agreed Branwe. "Like... which things did she do first. She killed Alduin, she... uh... killed Miraak... She, uh... mmm..."

"Drink this," said Runa, putting a tankard in front of him. She jiggled it insistently until his hands lazily came up to clasp it.

"...She married... 'n kids..."

"Drink," Runa commanded by the proto-fire, before bending down to breathe it to life. Branwe drank. It was a bitter concoction, making him cringe away from it forcefully, his mouth rebelling against him for the torture it was now enduring. He opened his eyes, and summoned his will, forcing himself to swallow rather than spit out the vile concoction.

"What _is_ that!" cried Branwe once he'd finally managed the feat. He waved his tongue out in the air, trying by any means available to rid the taste from it. Runa giggled at him, and tossed him another skin.

"It's cold quina-bark tea," she answered. "One of the bitterest things I can get my hands on around Cyrodiil. Comes from Blackmarsh."

"Why did you make me _drink_ that?"

"You need to stay awake for now. You're chilled through. It was bitter enough to wake you, and safe to make you drink," she said factually, with a shrug. "I keep it around as a muscle-relaxant, but this seemed like a reasonable use for it too. Besides, I bet that aspect of it will come in handy for you, too," she said, rubbing one of her shoulders meaningfully as she spoke. Branwe looked over to realize was was, in fact, still wearing his heavy pack. It would be colder without it, but the fire was going now.

He reached up and began to undo the straps. His fingers were like cold sausages, still refusing to obey him with any dexterity. He struggled with them quietly for a moment, managing to get one of the metal buckles open for a second, before it vengefully snapped at his finger. The cold made it worse, and he cried out. He stifled it quickly by sticking the offended limb into his mouth to suck, and cover his wince. Runa looked up from setting up the stove, her eyes wide to attention. They searched his face from across the fire for a moment. He tried to ward her off with a smile, and a shake of his head, but she rose to her feet with a business-like frown. He shook his head harder, and made pleading noises through his finger.

"Mmmm, mmm, no, no, I'm fine," he said. "Go back to—no really, I can do it!"

But it was already too late. Runa had, in one easy motion, wrenched off the straps, and was actively helping his shrug off the pack.

"You really don't know how to deal with winter, do you? You're frozen through," said Runa. "You're not built for this kind of weather, you're not used to it, and you weren't prepared for it. I dragged you through it anyhow. Sit up," she said. He did so grudgingly, and she pulled his pack off of him, and set it aside.

"I'm just dead weight out here," he muttered. Runa didn't answer him for a while as she worked. He took her silence as agreement.

"Everyone has to start somewhere," she said.

"I'm here, slowing you down, and wasting your time and energy on a helpless little Bosmer fan-boy of your mama," said Branwe. He sighed heavily. "I shouldn't have come."

Runa's work paused for a second, halted dead in the process of laying out his pack. She looked at him, her brown eyes tinged with surprise. Then, maybe, remorse,

"I shouldn't have dragged you out here, but you did well," she said. He put on a friendly little smirk, and nudged him in the ribs. "Given everything. This is nothing like Skingraad," she added with a chuckle. He didn't cheer.

The warmth from the fire was emanating all the way out to him now. He didn't realize that he wasn't moving until Runa's hands clasped around his boot. She pulled it off with a long, slow squelch noise. It was sodden all the way through. She frowned, and tossed the boot aside, sparing a glance at Branwe's face before looking back at her work. She pulled off his socks, and examined his feet. She bit her lip, her frown deepening. Another apologetic look flashed in her eyes when she glanced up at his face.

"You're not in good shape," she said, shaking her head. "You complained, I should have listened..." She stood up again, and grabbed his bed roll out of his pack, and laid it out on the ground near the fire. "Come on, out of anything that's wet," she commanded. "Can't have you half dead here. I need you up. You'll be pulling your weight before you know it," said Runa with a smirk.

He felt like every fluid in his body, and every tendon, was just sluggish. Chilled, like a half-thawed pudding. Most of what work was happening was her moving his limbs for him. She helped him out of his coat, and hat. She smiled directly at him, her eyes commanding his to stay on her as she snugged his freshly warmed blanket around him. He felt himself slipping back to sleep. When she saw his eyes close, she slapped his cheek a few times until she had his attention. She pointed to his mug, and all it took to bring him back this time was looking into it. He remembered quite clearly that he did _not_ want to drink from it again.

"I'm going to make us some broth," said Runa, returning to her stove set up. He could still feel her attention on him warily. Branwe's mood was still black. He felt the stupidity of his decision, not for the first time. Here he was, way out here in the frigid north. Not prepared, feeling too beaten down and weak to ever move again. He didn't think he could ever make the trek inside, let alone back home. He just wanted to be in the vineyards again, where it was sunny, and warm, and sweet smelling... Rithleen yelling at him to pay attention, to finish his work before sunset, to pick up after himself... The smell of oak barrels filling the warehouse. The feel of cool grapes squishing between his toes, refreshing him on a hot day. Blades of grass tickling his ears as he watched bright blue skies house fluffy clouds.

He looked around at the indifferent face of grey green stone. Nothing here was familiar. Nothing here was soft. Nothing here was forgiving. He was starting to really feel how far away he was. His lip trembled in spite of him. Runa looked up just as his face broke.

"Hey, shhh," she said, rushing to his side. "You're fine, you're okay," she told him, her hands on his shoulders as he huddled helplessly. She looked around wildly, as if unsure of what to do next. Branwe shook his head, doubling over to try and stop the sobbing he felt coming on. It didn't help. Runa was rubbing his back through the blanket, still making vague soothing noises.

"It's not okay," he burbled. "It's not okay, I shouldn't be here... I should have listened to Rithleen..." he wailed into his lap. "I'm not cut out for this... I should have stayed at home... I should have worked the fields, made wine, and only read about people who did this sort of thing, I shouldn't be here..."

"Hey, shhh, don't talk like that," said Runa. She worked for a moment at what to say, her mouth starting to form words before she knew what they were going to be. Eventually she settled on, "You're here." Though this did nothing to soothe Branwe. She took a deep breath, and started a bit more certainly. "You're here, in one of the harshest places in Cyrodiil. During a particularly bad season. And you made it," said Runa. "You made it here, to this place. You're going to be fine. What you're doing here is damned impressive," she assured him.

"No it isn't!" he cried, looking up at her with angry tears rolling in waves down his cheeks. "Don't patronize me, Runa!" he roared incoherently. "I'm following you around, and having you wait on me hand and foo—literally hand and foot!" he wailed, looking up and gesturing to his feet. They were white and pink, and didn't look good. Runa smiled at him knowingly, a firm grip on his shoulder.

"How many other students are trying for the same spot you are?" she asked him. He was thrown by the question. It completely derailed his tantrum for a moment. It seemed so far away right now. His thesis... Another thing he was going to fail at, just like Rithleen said.

"I... I don't know... Ten, twenty?" he said, still shuddering sobs. "What does that matt-"

"And how many of them would have braved anywhere near as horrible a place as this?" she asked. "Eh? How many of them would as tenaciously follow their source around, seeking answers and information? How many city-folk, I ask you, would have tried as hard as you're trying right now?" she asked him, still smiling in that confident certainty.

Branwe sniffed. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, to wail, and keep crying, and just breakdown here and die and be done with it. He wanted to scream in her face and tell her anyone could have done this better... But...

But she was right. No one else he'd met, and he doubted those he hadn't met, would have done this for the story. He sniffed, and with red-rimmed eyes looked at her, the bulk of the panic subsiding.

"I thought so," said Runa with a smirk. "And after that climb, once you're well, and rested, and surrounded by your books and papers... Is writing the the damn thing going to be the hardest part of what you've done?" she asked. Branwe, again reluctantly, shook his head. "No," she agreed leadingly. "You've just done something incredibly difficult. After this, it gets easier," she told him, rubbing his back vigorously to emphasize her point. In spite of himself, he felt a small smile on his face, and a faint chuckle at the thought. Easier. It gets easier.

"Just think," she continued, directing his gaze back toward the stairs they'd entered by. "Even that climb, which was grueling and horrible," she said, holding an arm out inviting him to imagine with her. "Even that, even though we have to go back after this is done... It's going to be down hill we're going. Lightened by less food, less fire-wood, you're going to have learned more about how to handle yourself... And we're going to be heading back into civilization, where Skoljar can draw you a bath as hot as you like, as soon as you get back. Breathe a little life into those bones, and revive you. Eh? How's that sound? But, if you're still going to think you're useless..." said Runa, meeting his eyes again. "Then at least wait until you've had some broth, and a sleep. Then, if you still feel useless, well, it's a different story."

He looked at her with pure admiration on his face. Well, that and the remnants of sobs. His lip still trembled, and he still felt like bursting back into tears, but... But maybe the ground hadn't opened up and swallowed him whole. He tried to smile at her but it was a weak attempt at best. "Thank you..." he whispered. Runa smiled softly at him, and squished his shoulders in the crook of her arm.

"It's going to be okay," she assured him. "I think the broth is ready. Have some, then sleep."


	6. Chapter 6

" _Runa, this isn't up for discussion."_

" _You're right, it isn't. Even mama says the law is wrong!"_

" _Your mama says a lot of very stupid things. She says them charmingly, and convincingly, but that doesn't mean you should."_

" _This isn't stupid! This is important. I can't believe you don't understand that!"_

" _Runa, what we're talking about here is considered_ treason _. Please take off that amulet before someone sees you."_

" _Then why keep a His shrine in our cellar?"_

" _Shh! Shush now! Take that off, we aren't having this discussion until we're home away from prying ears, Runa."_

" _No! We're having it now!"_

" _Runa, the White-Gold concordant-"_

" _Is a load of horse dung! Talos is one of the Nine, and you're acting like It's okay with you that we were outlawed from worshiping him by the elves!"_

" _Of course it's not okay with me. But peace is better than civil war. Sometimes that means certain... compromises must be made. Runa, this is an old and sore subject. The discussion of which is punishable by_ death. _We can have it in full, if you so_ desperately _want to hear all about why your mama chose the side she did. But we will not be doing this_ here. _Come_ on, _you foolish girl."_

" _But mother-"_

" _Not_ here. _Runa, I know Nerella keeps Talos' symbol. But your mama... Even your mama doesn't get caught with it. Remember what she says. Sometimes it's best to wait for the right time to strike. Sometimes you have to keep a secret to free the truth."_

...

The exploration had been slower than Runa had originally hoped. She made it to the easiest to reach parts of the structure. She'd started by disarming the most obvious traps she could find, and disabling the locks on the doors nearest by. She made sketches of some of the most recognizable statues and corridors. She'd even taken a few rubbings of some of the carvings on the walls. But she was dividing her time, doubling back every now and then to check on Branwe. That didn't exactly make things move faster.

Runa set her things down on another return to camp. Branwe was sleeping peacefully by the fire. He'd really done a number on himself. She hadn't realized just how bad he'd gotten until she saw him falling asleep with his lips blue-white. On a man as dark-skinned as he, she was worried what that meant in terms of permanent damage.

But when she came closer to inspect him, she his colour had seemed to return. Once a cup of lukewarm broth had been gotten into him, he looked noticeably better. And another of hot, and he was flushed. She was surprised with herself to find that felt awful. Awful for dragging him along so far. And yet, to his credit, the idiot had hardly mentioned any discomfort. Although she wished he would have complained sooner, a part of her recognized that she'd have thought less of him for it.

She settled down, sitting to check some of the etchings she'd made. It was getting late enough that she was starting to think about lunch. She looked up from her etchings for a moment to once again check on Branwe. Still sleeping peacefully. Still breathing. He looked more comfortable than he had before, which heartened her. She'd made sure to stick close by, and keep the fire burning hotter than she normally would have. There were trees near by, and she had her axe if all else failed anyway. She smiled at him, oddly proud of his determination to keep up with her, even if it had caused him to do such damage to himself. It spoke volumes about who he was as a person, she thought. He had been faced with something beyond him, and hadn't broken. It embodied a very Nord spirit, she thought approvingly.

Still smiling to herself, she looked back down at her etchings. She hadn't gone very far into the ruins, but she'd found places that weren't covered in any previous notes she'd found. No less dusty, but far less disturbed, if she had any eye for this. Not pristine, though. Varla and Welkynd stones were still missing, and she felt rather sure that the stands she'd seen were meant to house them. Which meant who knew what else was also missing. She wasn't even sure if what she wanted to find had been here in the first place.

One of these etchings, she felt sure, was a map of some sort. She could see contiguous lines, and repeating patterns that made that suggestion very clear. But she didn't know what anything written there meant, nor what the patterns represented. Most maps Runa was familiar with had landmarks on that which made orientation easier than this. Trees, mountains, rivers... These were all strange words, or symbols that meant things she didn't understand. Maybe they referred to underground phenomenons which she wasn't as well versed in. Maybe some of these were veins, or depicted softer dirt, or something equally recognizable as to an Ayleid as a fjord or peninsula might have been to someone living on the surface.

Another etching, she'd taken was from a wall across from it. It was a bunch of writing. Runa couldn't read it, and she was slow to translate anything of this nature. But by the very deliberate line lengths, she decided it was probably a poem, or some kind of specific verse. She'd brought the books she would need to translate such text, but the work was slow going. She laboured over the letters, which had never been her friends. She wasn't the best reader in the world.

Once again, she looked up at Branwe. This time, she frowned slightly. She found herself hoping he'd wake up sooner so she could put him to work on this for her. A fleeting thought, which instantly she regretted entertaining. The boy would do it, too, if she told him to. Whatever idea he'd gotten into his head, whatever he was doing here... It had taken root in him more than merely writing a thesis. It was more than just the idea of finding out more about mama. He might have taken too seriously the comment she'd made about learning the flavour of someone. He certainly did seem to be diving in head first, as evidenced by his current state of affairs.

Once again, she returned her attention to her work. She'd made a few rough sketches of the statues inside, which appeared to be demonstrating something, though what she couldn't say what with any level of certainty. But it wasn't like anything she'd seen before. A stone representation of an elf, followed by another in a very, very similar pose, but ducked down, and tucked a bit. The next statue was further into the tucking. The fourth had evidently sprung up. Then next few were... dancing? Spinning? When she'd first come into the room with them, she'd thought it was an elaborate show of a party with many elves. But the flowing from one elf to another, the similarity of their costuming and props, All those clues convinced her they were meant to be all the same elf, one after another. It was baffling, she hadn't the foggiest of what to make of it.

"Mmmm...?" came a sound. Runa's head snapped up from her drawings. Branwe was stirring. Groggily, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. He smiled, hungover.

"I hate myself a little..." he replied lightly. "But I think I'm all here..."

Runa smiled in relief. "That's good to hear," she said earnestly. "There's a lot of exploring to do, but I didn't want to leave you on your own too long."

"How long was I out?" he asked, looking around. "I can't tell what time it is..."

"We _are_ underground," she said.

"Yes. That has _nothing_ to do with why I couldn't tell..."

"Heh. Only a few hours. Feeling up to—Ah, nevermind, are you hungry?"

"Up to what?"

"No, it's nothing. You should be resting."

"I came along and have been an active detriment to you since we started," said Branwe doggedly. "The least I can do is lend a hand if I'm up for it. Which, by the way, I get to decide. What were you going to ask?"

"I was going to ask if you were up for some food."

"You know, you're not a great liar. Yes, I'd like some food. After that?"

Runa sighed dramatically. "I was going to ask you if you were willing to translate these etchings I took," she said, gesturing to the stack of books. "But it's really not something you need to worry yourself with. You're here for your own research, not mine," she said.

"I'd be happy to help," he said with a smile.

"You don't need to. I dragged you through a blizzard. You should be resting."

"Reading and writing is hardly any work at all. Let me do it. Then I'd feel less like you're _just_ being charitable. As it stands, I've been slowing your trip. And you've been helping me with my thesis, saved me from a bear, and bought me a horse. Should I keep listing?" he asked, an eyebrow cocked triumphantly. He pulled himself fully seated, and spoke through a yawn. "Because really, asking me to read a gods damned _book_ really doesn't compete with most any of these," he finished with a laugh.

"When you put it like that..." she admitted, looking sidelong at the books. She set her jaw, and looked back towards him firmly. "Not until after you eat something, though. I'm not having you collapse from exhaustion and starvation on my watch all in one day." He laughed a little harder, and rubbed his eyes, yawning himself awake.

"Fair enough, I see your point. Can I help make... what is this, dinner, or lunch?"

"Dinner. And fine. You can cut up the tubers."

"Oh boy, tubers. My favourite," said Branwe, pulling himself upright. He didn't try to extricate himself from his bedroll at all, still weak and cold. But the boy did appear to have a work-ethic that was somewhere between admirable and terrifying. She sighed as she handed him a plank, knife, and bag of carrots and potatoes.

"I'm going to have to watch you like a hawk to make sure you don't work yourself right to death on my account, aren't I?" she asked tiredly. Branwe smiled beatifically at her.

"I have no intention to die, thank you. But I appreciate the concern."

"No intention, but a terrible survival instinct..." she mumbled as she sat back down by the fire and started pulling out the other ingredients. Branwe set himself right to work. A slow, but respectable pace, given everything else.

"So," he began after the sound of a few slices. He was clearly trying to sound as nonchalant as possible about a question he was dying to know the answer to. "What exactly is it that you're looking for in here?" he asked, deliberately looking down at his work. She caught him trying to sneak a look to gauge her expression.

"I mean," he continued. "I know you didn't want to talk about it, and you don't have you," he added hastily. "It's just if I'm translating something, I want to know if... Well if it's anything useful to you."

She stopped what she was doing, and started at him torn, and picking at her thumb with one hand as she weighed her options.

"Like I said, you don't have to-"

"-I want to," said Runa. "I really do, it's just..." she sighed, and shook her head. "I'm looking for Atherium."

Branwe looked at her like she'd just declared herself to be the paragon of a house of centaurs. He blinked, and tried to form words, but nothing came in response to that that seemed sensible. Probably because the sentence itself wasn't to begin with. "Atherium?" he parroted.

"Yes," she said.

"As in, the kind that the book was written about?"

"Yes," she said, slower this time, more assertive.

"You're here looking for the stuff that ended up destroying all of Dwemer _society_?" asked Branwe. The word 'incredulous' wasn't sufficient to express his disbelief. Runa was still biting her lip and picking her thumb. She looked away in frustration.

"Yes!" she said, the word clipped and forced. "Atherium. The very thing."

"Just... Well, just checking, I guess," he said, trying to find some way to hastily back down. "Wouldn't want to have misunderstood that one, heh. And you think it's here, why?"

"Rielle is a library. It was said to be a repository of knowledge. When researchers came here last, they didn't find anything to substantiate those claims, but with Aillie opening up the way it did..."

"Well, okay then," admitted Branwe. The logic of that part seemed sound. There was still one part plaguing him. "Um, wh-why exactly are we looking for Atherium, though? Just curious." Then, just for safety, he added, "...This isn't the 'if I told you I'd have to kill you' sort of thing, right?"

"No, it isn't," said Runa. Whatever sympathy she'd had for the boy evaporated again. Whatever else he may have been, he was obnoxious as anything. It was frustrating, the things he just didn't seem to _get_. "I'm looking for it... Mama was looking for it before she disappeared," admitted Runa.

Branwe stopped dead. He looked at her with astonishment, as if all the wind had been pulled from his body. "Oh," he said. "Oh, I'm sorry. I had no idea."

"She was curious about it for years... The last few years before she vanished she got more and more interested in it... Then one day she was just gone." Runa shrugged elaborately as she made steady eye contact with a bit of the wall behind Branwe's left shoulder. "So, I suppose depending on how much you want to know about her, this trip is for you, too..." said Runa.

Branwe let the silence wash over him. He made a mental note to look into Atherium more than he had, and to figure out what there was to know. As he understood it, there was very little indeed, so it shouldn't be too hard to get what little there was.

This was a real lead, something no one else knew. Nerella's departure, or disappearance, or some had even said, ascendance, had always been a matter of wild speculation. She was a figure, there, in history and present at events. Central to a great deal of them, even. Then, without warning, she wasn't. No one knew why. No one even had a clue. No one but him, and Runa. This was huge. For good measure, he underlined his mental note. Three times.

In fact, for _great_ measure, Branwe went and got his damned notebook, and scribbled down his notes like a damned professional.

"How did Nerella get so interested in Atherium?"

"She found some, I think. In some Dwemer ruins or other. This was all before I was around, you see."

"Right, right of courses. When were you adopted?"

"In two oh two," answered Runa.

"And your mother? What happened with her, and Serana?"

"Before mama had proven herself in the companions. She and mother had been married some time. They lived quite happily in Vlindrell hall," recited Runa.

"In Markarth, right?" asked Branwe, scribbling wildly to keep up with this telling. This was more information in one sitting about Nerella the Calm than he'd had handed to him since he'd first heard the songs about her.

"Yes, Markarth. Have you ever been? Beautiful city."

"No, I've never been out of Cyrodiil."

"Mmm, can't much be a scholar Nerella the Calm if you've never been to Skyrim or Valenwood," said Runa disapprovingly. Branwe blanched.

"Oh, no, no... I'm just a student."

"Every scholar starts somewhere, Bosmer," said Runa. Again, there was a weight to her words like Imperials just couldn't manage. Like her even saying it was making this information a heavier burden. One which he had to carry, now that he knew it. He was one of the few people to know, it fell to him to learn, didn't it?

"Yes, I suppose that's true..." said Branwe thoughtfully.

"Where was I?"

"Uh..." said Branwe, consulting his notes. "They were... living in Markarth,"

"Ah, yes. Mother ran a store which sold most of the things mama brought back from delving in ruins. She wasn't really known as much more than a ruffian back then, as I gather. Ran with the thieves guild, and the dark brotherhood. Picked up bounties in the inns she played at, and made good with the Jarls that way. She ran that way for some time. "

Runa was watching him again. She seemed to have an ability to speak with silence, like she could fill the conversation with it, and he would feel like he was interrupt her if he spoke before her silence was done. It pressed on him as the thought clicked into place, and was promptly done.

"You're not saying Nerella was...?"

"Yes," she said, dropping down from her perch with sturdy grace, and going toward the mead skin for a refill. "One of those lesser-known parts of the legends."

"...Gods," said Branwe, for lack of anything more intelligent. "Lesser known... That's... I mean, she was..."

"I don't want her judged harshly on this," said Runa. "She told me the story of the first time she encountered Molag Bal. This was one of the only times I remember mama telling a story touched with fear."

It was Branwe's turn to speak. But he found he could only be silent. Runa had spoken too much, and she was clearly torn about whether she should keep speaking to clear her mother's name, or quit while she was only a little behind. She sighed again, and resolved herself to continue.

"She was young when it happened. Naive. She'd only recently escaped from Helgen, and the biggest thing she thought was happening in Skyrim was a war that she'd nearly been an oversight in, and a dragon coming back from extinction. And she didn't want any part in either. She just wanted to live on her own. Hunt, trade, maybe fight for money, like she had in Valenwood before. She'd been wandering for a few days, climbing in caves, and swimming in rivers. Eventually she made a stop in Markarth. It was her first time in any sort of major city. She had lived tribally when she was in Valenwood. These massive congregations of people were foreign to her.

While mama was still gawking incoherently at Markarth's – admittedly beautiful – scenery, a man approached her. He told her he was a Vigilant of Stendarr. Some now defunct order of demon hunters. They are said to serve the God of Justice by hunting down those who would tangle with foul magics."

Branwe scribbled down the name of the order. There were so many little holy orders around, especially ones who worshiped any of the Eight divines. Even ones who worshiped Talos as the ninth. The Vigilant of Stendarr, though, did ring a few bells.

"Vigilant of Stendarr... weren't those the ones who got wiped out by a vampire attack?" asked Branwe. Runa sighed.

"The Vigilant were heralded as some of the most capable servants of Stendarr. There are stories of whole foul nests of monsters being wiped clean away. There was thought to be no challenge the undead could throw at them, no cunning the Daedra could conjure, that could defeat a Vigilant in battle. But vampires are cruel beasts, and they were none too pleased with so many of their brethren dying at the Vigilant's hands," said Runa. Her eyes went inky for a moment, like a dark fog overcame her. "The butchers killed them while they slept. Murdered them in their own beds, feasted on their blood, and burned the Hall of the Vigilant to ashes."

Branwe shied away from Runa's intensity. She was actually frightening him a little. He swallowed, and wrote down that he needed to do more research on the Vigilant of Stendarr. Then, he looked up at Runa, wincing slightly as he spoke.

"Did you know any... of them?" he asked.

"Not personally. None of them that died in the massacre," answered Runa stiffly. She cleared her throat, and continued telling her story.

"The man hired Mama to help him investigate an abandoned house in town," she explained, her voice cooling. "He suspected it was being used for Daedra worship. Mama said, she didn't really know what she was getting into. To her, it had just seemed like a chance at pay. Daedra worship was something she'd seen done quite peaceably back in Valenwood. Little more than children reaching out to Azura, as far as she had ever thought about it. So she agreed to help the man, and followed him into the house."

Runa wrung her hands, and sighed. "I remember the look on her face when mama told me she stood inside that house. Her eyes were like something out of a play," said Runa, sad in remembrance. "She told me, a voice spoke in her bones. She told me, it said things to her that she couldn't ignore. Things she couldn't understand. She felt her mind being played with like a mandolin, she said. She told me to my face that nothing in her entire life has been so horrible as the sickly feeling that you're not alone in your mind. She said she could feel someone else's hands all over her, inside and out. And when she said it," said Runa, staring into the fire. She looked haunted. "I believed her.

"And the voice grew darker. More insistent. It told her the man who had brought her here was trying to kill her. It told her he was going to turn on her. Why else had he brought her there? Where they were alone, secluded, and armed? Why would he have done such a thing? She was confused, disoriented, terrified, and suddenly, it made sense... He had to die."

Runa took a breath, shaking off the thought. She paused, and stared into the fire. Her hands pressed up to the flame, trying to warm them. Her eyes were distant, her expression a hollow mask of exhaustion. "She killed him. She said it was easy to do. That was the part that scared her the most. That man was the first mama had ever killed. The others had done the work whilst she escaped Helgen, but that man... She said she could feel the black stain in her soul after that.

"Something compelled her to keep searching the house. She couldn't figure out why, but she had to know what was in here. What was worth killing for. Something had to be worth the journey in here, which had twisted her enough to kill this man. In the basement, she stumbled around half blind, half sick. She tripped her way into a cage of black claws. Once more, the voice rumbled in her bones. It taunted once more, with strange demands. Strange visions...

"She was told to track down a man, a priest of a rival Daedric prince. Lure him back for Molag Bal to claim. Molag Bal, the Harvester of Souls. Mama did it. She thought if she just did it, she would be free of his hold on her... Free to cleanse herself of the black stain he'd put inside her soul. She tracked down the priest, tricked him to return with her, and presented him to Molag Bal's altar.

A mace of pure ebony appeared in her hand as the priest knelt at the altar. And she... was compelled to beat him to death with it. She tried to stop. She couldn't. She felt it as the weapon tore the priest's skin, clanged against bone, cracked the man's skull... She felt it when he was a soft, mushy pulp. And then, when he died... Molag Bal, the Schemer Prince himself, brought the priest back to life. And he made mama do it all over again. And again. And again, until the man submitted to the prince, and foreswore his original patron."

Once again, Runa shivered out the cold which wasn't there, and leaned a little closer to the fire. "Mama nearly broke down the first time she told me this story. One of the few things in the worlds which scared her. How another had stripped her of her will, and made her do these things. From then on, she did a great deal of good. And ill only at her own choosing."

There was a long silence as Branwe took this in. What were the implications of this? It was so baseless in a lot of ways that he couldn't add it to his thesis without proof... Good, though she may have been. Heroic though she may have been. Brilliant and charming and beautiful though she was said to've been, she was... Well, she was truly a killer. What did that mean?

"I noticed you haven't made a note in your little book in some time," said Runa, looking down at his paper. To his surprise, Branwe found she was right. At some point he'd turned the page, and begun simply listening to Runa tell the tale.

"I... I got distracted," he said, his cheeks flushing. He honestly wasn't sure if this was something he should be writing down. It all seemed real now. Like the personal life of a great person. Was it really his to share with the world? That the hero of Skyrim had fallen victim to some of the evils of Daedra? That she wasn't necessarily an invulnerable super being, and was more like the rest of them than anyone wanted to admit? "You tell the tales so well, I just... Well, I got carried off."

"It's an old tradition among Nords." said Runa, glomming on to the shift in subject matter readily. "Mama and mother may have been Bosmer and Breton, but they were Nords at heart, and Skyrim was their home. They told the tales by the fire on the coldest nights, when the snows trapped us indoors. Mama, mother, Aela, Gunjar, Llewellyn, Rayya, even Hroar and me. We all told took our turns telling stories."

"It shows..." encouraged Branwe.

"There's nothing much like it out here in Cyrodiil. It's a shame to've left it behind." She stretched a moment, and took another drink, clambering up onto her perch again. She stared up at the intricate latticework of the ceiling, her point about her mama made. She was calm again, free to let her mind wander, no longer worrying about whether she'd dishonored her mama's memory by sharing only the wrong things to share. She looked distant, cradled in her fur-covered stone throne. Like she was looking into the long ago, or far away.


	7. Chapter 7

As Runa had been settling in for a long look around the ruins, making a stable camp to come back to and the like, Branwe had kept his nose firmly in the books Runa had handed him. She'd shown him which passages seemed relevant to her, and he'd vaulted on from there. He'd noted down the etchings she'd brought him, and translated them to the best of his ability. The notes on the grammar were a little vague at best, so he didn't really understand what he was supposed to do with them. But he got most of the big nouns.

"Hey, I think I found something," said Branwe. Runa's attentions roused from cleaning her dagger. She looked up tiredly. Through a skeptical brow, she confirmed he meant his summons. She sheathed the dagger grudgingly, and rose to her feet.

"This passage here," he motioned as Runa came up to look over his shoulder. "It mentions Atherium. Well, not by name. It's actually called the River of Light. Only it's a very clever name, because the Alyed word 'river' and 'stone' are spelled exactly—Aaand you're glaring at me... right. Babbling." Branwe cleared his throat under the harsh gaze of Runa's deadpan scrutiny.

"Anyway," he continued, "Apparently there were some storage facilities around here somewhere. Rielle was a... a, uh, rest stop on the transport route. I think. The words 'rest' and 'immense housing' are... sorry."

"So there was some in here at one point?" asked Runa redirecting him to the point..

"No, ah, no. No," he said, shaking his head meaningfully for extra emphasis. It wasn't a vehement denial, it was just several flavours of nos. He smiled up at her. Runa's face finally cracked. She chuckled.

"You've probably had enough mead," she chuckled.

"But I'm still so coool, shoh cold..." protested Branwe, clutching his mug to his chest. He laughed, shrugging the joke off. "You want what I foun', er not?"

"Yes, yes, tell me what you've found," said Runa, sitting beside him.

"Everything I've read suggests that it had to be stored mostly above-ground for some reason... This was where the couriers rested when they were on that route. And somewhere near by was a temporary storage for the Atherium. They called them 'rock stables'," he said, absolutely charmed with the name, and satisfied by how it rolled of the tongue.

"I doubt we'll actually find any Atherium there," he continued, "since the Rock Stables were just overnight housing and the like. But there's also supposed to be a vein somewhere around here. Here, this part, see?" he asked her, pointing to a particular passage he'd translated. Runa flushed for a moment. She leaned in forward, and haltingly began to read the sentence bid her.

"A v-vine, not offff the blaa- _k_ ree-at-ch, A gwidanss... to the path... to the sourss..." read Runa. She hadn't made it less embarrassing by coughing, and clearing her throat the whole time to cover it. Branwe bit his lip, a little guilty at having let her do that. There had been a reason she asked him to be bookish for her, and evidently, a reason she thought it might have been bothersome to ask.

"A vein not of the Blackreach. A Guidance to the path to the source," he said. "I think it's talking about a map. Somewhere in here there's supposed to be a map to an Atherium vein the elves found!" he exclaimed. Her face broke into a bright beaming smile. She looked at him like she could _kiss_ him.

"This is amazing!" she cried. "A vein of Atherium! It's probably tapped out, but just think! Maybe there will be something left, something about how the mined it, how they _found_ it!"

"Not that we can work it even if we do find that..."

"Ye of little faith," said Runa with a sly grin. She winked at him.

"Nerella told you where the Forge was?" he asked agog.

"I am her favourite daughter."

"You win by default, then," said Branwe, rolling his eyes. "So where is it?"

"Family secret."

"Stupid families..."

"Yup. 'Fraid so."

"So what makes us sure that Nerella found these maps?"

"She was looking for Atherium, chasing the same tiny amount of rumours," said Runa matter of factly. She rose from her stoop, and walked over to her scroll case. "There's little enough record of the stuff that if I just find all the leads I can on it, there are few enough that I might be able to find a trace of her at one," said Runa. She was looking through her stack of etchings. Flipping across them with a hungry keenness in her eye, all attention and precision. Branwe cocked his head and watched her. She hadn't expected anything of this adventure. She was still trying to play it cool and stonefaced, but her vernier was cracking. She was starting to get excited in spite of herself.

"How many places have you been while looking for her?" asked Branwe.

"Five Ayleid, twelve Dwemer, a three or four old Dunmer compounds, a pyramid in Elsweyer, seven Nordic, and more mines than I can count," she listed absently. She said it like it was a rehearsed tally, or perhaps a mantra. 'This is the summation of how much I've put into this.'

"Wow," said Branwe, awestruck. "You've really traveled along a lot for this..."

"It's my mama." This was just one woman's obsession with finding her mama.

And with numbers like that, it sounded like her search must have consumed her life. This wasn't something she did out of hope. This was something she did because she needed to keep doing it. To keep trying. She was doing it because the alternative was to stop. To give into whatever next stage of grief she needed to move to. She was caught somewhere between denial an anger, set on a mission. Contemplating failure - or even success - was impossible.

"Have you been looking the whole time she's been missing?"

"Yes."

"Wow, I had no idea..." Branwe frowned. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable being there at all. Being not only a burden, but a reminder as well. A fanboy trying to get the scoop and Nerella's fame. Runa shrugged. It was a little too stiff to be called nonchalant, but it was clearly what she was going for. There wasn't pain in her eyes, they were just hollow.

"Here," she said, pulling one piece of paper out of her sheaf. "This could be it."

" _That's_ a map?" asked Branwe incredulously. The design on the rubbing was what looked to him like a series of very beautifully placed, and flowing lines. Geometrically appealing, well shaped, bearing the hallmarks of a good sense of composition. But not any map he was familiar with.

"If this one isn't it, then I haven't found it yet," answered Runa.

"Well, let's see what this says, then, just in case," he hazarded. He pulled open the wordbook and started tracing a finger down the pages. "Fissure? Pass? River?" Branwe looked at the rubbing with his head cocked to the side. It had words like a map might have on it. He squinted a little. He didn't see it. "It might be some disused roads that have eroded away on the surface," guessed Branwe.

"Well then, we just need to find the river they're speaking about there," said Runa simply.

"I'm pretty sure this map is stylized, and therefore not to scale." He squinted at the artfully wavy lines that overlapped straighter, more rigid lines. He shook his head, coming to a conclusion about that. "Rivers aren't actually that shape. That's the shape you draw a river, not the shape a river really is. There's a ravine here, though, and a river here, and a... bridge here?" said Branwe, still looking back and forth to translate.

"We just need to find a place that has all of those pieces, nearby, in vaguely that shape..." he muttered. He thought about how to do that. Going out, in the freezing cold, and wandering aimlessly, trying to find the landmarks that this map so poorly describes. Which, for all he knew, wasn't actually near by anyway. He looked down him mild horror at the image in his hands. "Gods, I hope this isn't the map," he said earnestly.

"Then we'll keep looking," declared Runa. She was staring out the archway to the inner chambers. "There's a map in here somewhere. Tomorrow, when we're rested, we're going deeper in. There may be things waiting further inside." She looked at him for confirmation. He swallowed hard, his mouth going dry when she turned to look at him. She had a determinedly hollow gaze fixed on her face. But she looked haunted. Harried maybe.

Branwe's face cracked into a chuckle. Runa started at his reaction, and looked at him warily.

"This is so awesome," he squealed. "We're found a clue!" Runa rolled her eyes at him, and smiled wryly. It was better to see her smile than with that other look on it.

Tomorrow they were going further in to find a map. And the might be things waiting for them.


	8. Chapter 8

They delved deeper the next day, the morning quiet of distractions. They ate a cold breakfast, and arranged camp into a much more fit state for their departure for the day. After a solid night of rest, Branwe was doing much better. He felt in a fine, fit state to accompany Runa this time. They walked deep into the corridors of Rielle.

The corridors wound, and each one had a plethora of runes inscribed on the walls. When they got past the areas Runa had scouted on her own, they split off from each other. They talked at each other around corners, and from the ends of hallways, always sticking close together. But this way they covered more ground. They shouted promising finds and playful quips across to each other, most other forms of sustainable conversation rendered impossible at such a disadvantage. The place was like a cluttered museum. It wasn't one room which made up the library, it was a labyrinth of pillars and obelisks, and daisies. It made a maze of hallways run through a mostly cohesive single room. It was separating it into many smaller, more intimate, alcove-like spaces.

There were words written on every wall. In the larger areas, the words were bigger, where you could read them from the other side of the room. Brilliant relief carvings accompanied them, on massive scales. In the smaller spaces, it was like being inside of a book. Every surface was scrawled with text, and pictures. Some were stories, depicted and explained. Some where explanations of native plants which died off ages ago. Some where little snippets of documents, or perhaps laws. The trick to this search certainly wasn't finding pristine carvings to take rubbings of. It was finding ones that were in any way relevant to Atherium.

Between something as inane as a recipe for mushroom soup no one had made in thousands of years, and something as rare as little known pieces of Auri-El's history. Somewhere in here, there was a map. But Rielle was living up to its claim. It was a repository for knowledge. There was a lot of knowledge here. Great, vast, heaps and hoards which would make a dragon envy. The only problem was they didn't seem to be stored very well. They wild elves had preserved a great many things, but their approach to the problem was to throw it all into the same room together.

Needless to say, this spawned work for hours. Hours of searching and reading, translating, and hoping. Before the end of the day, they realized they'd need to keep searching through the next. And if they were going to spend days at this task, they'd need to they'd need more accurate notes on where they'd searched already. They needed to develop a system. It took them until over the fire the second night that they'd started to keep a rigorous list of the walls. Branwe and Runa had named most of the walls they'd looked over, and had a comprehensive list of them by the middle of the next day. They kept it in camp to be updated between the two of them. It had become clearer and clearer, though, that Runa wasn't a big reader. She could cypher if she needed to.

This was made painfully clear to Branwe when he broke for lunch the third day, and he was sifting through wall list for the day. As he was copying it over to his personal notebook, he paused, and settled down for some serious considerations. He needed to come up with a better way to notate this for Runa. Not only was it labourous and painful to watch her struggle with the written language, but it was difficult to read.

He dig into his pack pack, and pulled out his scroll case. From it, he pulled out a large roll of paper. He weighted it down with some stones, and plucked a stick of charcoal out if the fire. They were running low on ink, and he was still saving some for a letter home. He couldn't tell Rithleen much, sadly, but he didn't want her to worry. He'd tell her that he was drawing again, like he used to.

He settled in, pouring over his notes as he ate his gruel, and began drawing a map of tunnels. He took a small notebook with him just for the purposes labeling everything in the labyrinth, why not just use that to make a quick sketch of what the space looked like? He had all the walls named and numbered. It shouldn't be too hard to make a map out of that. Which would come in handy, especially if they were going to be there a while. He put the drawing with the list. It was rough, and crude, and not all of the corridors connected. Nothing was to scale. But it was something.

When he returned from lunch, he took notes with renewed resolve. As he passed a wall describing a thousand minutely different procedures to perform on dairy product, he labeled it 'cheese wall.' But then he stopped before moving on. He sat there, and tried to really take the shape of the room in for a moment. It was vaguely hexagonal, with a jagged yin yang of obelisks in the centre. It hat a few exits in it. Branwe tries to get all the information he'd need for later, and scribbled it into his notebook.

He passed the paintings wall, the livestock monolith, the fabrics pillar, and the nutrition obelisk on his way to the newer unexplored areas. As he went further in, he got better at drawing the configuration of pipes around, so he was using fewer and fewer actual words. He was making his map a little more useful to him. After the third day he'd mapped out the entirety of the ruins, as they could find them.

Branwe had translated and named some of them, but most of his progress after lunch had been spent making place traversable. Which meant that when one wall referenced another for continuation, they started to be able to find that continuation. The fourth day, Runa had seen his notes, and chipped in her part. Her maps were better than his, made with cleaner lines, and more years of pratcice, but they weren't nearly as complete as his. He was starting to get titles for all of the walls themselves filled in, now that he had a functional map. It was as he was doing this, going over the earlier halls on his second pass, that he made a breakthrough.

One of the halls had part of an aqueduct cutting across it. An artificial stream running through a dam. Perhaps going to feed the steam pistons, or power a mechanical wheel, or provide drinking water. Who knew. The point was, there was a bridge which had once been constructed over the water. It had long since broken, and fallen into the current below. The gap left by this wasn't impossible to get past. Even if you wanted to do while staying dry. But it was an annoying hazard to have sprung on you. And since Branwe was building a map, he wanted to include hazards like that.

He found the offending passage on his map, and squiggled two lines perpendicular to it. There was water there.

He stopped, frowned, and for the first time, looked at his map. Really looked at it. Strangely... similar to something. Geometrically appealing, well shaped lines, with a good sense of composition. Branwe's face broke into into a gradually blooming smile. Understanding suddenly dawned, and certainty began to fill him up, and lift him by the chest.

"Runa?" he called,his voice almost quavering in excitement.

"I'm by the Timber wall," she called. Branwe scrambled over that way.

"Runa, come here, look at this!" he said. She was wiping the charcoal off her hands with a rag as she walked up to him tiredly.

"Look at this," he said.

"It's the map you made. I already said, it's a nice piece of work," said Runa patiently. Branwe shook his head vigorously.

"No, I mean, look, doesn't it look familiar?"

"It looks like your map."

"More importantly, it looks like the map you _found_! I think we found the map already!" he exclaimed. Runa looked intent. They started walking back to camp as they continued.

"The one by the Ant Facts wall? From the first day?"

"Yes! The one I said I hoped it wasn't. The very same. But look, tt's a map of an underground complex! Like this one. Look, see? The only reason you would draw a river like that is if you only want to show that there's a river there, but the shape of the river doesn't matter," said Branwe. He laughed in triumph. "Two squiggly lines isn't the kind of river you put on a map of a river. But if you're just listing hazards, that's all you need."

"That would explain fissure, and valley, and bridge, too," agreed Runa, grappling with the implications. "So we have the map, then?"

"Well, we have _a_ map. In fact, at this point, we probably have several we haven't taken rubbings of," answered Branwe thoughtfully.

"So we not only need to find out which map we want," said Runa carefully. "A map which we may not even have here. But we also need to find out where it's depicting as well."

"Looks like," agreed Branwe

"It's thin," grumbled Runa.

"It's a lot thicker than what we _have_ been working on."

"No question! That's why we're looking through all our rubbings _now_ ," said Runa, picking up speed.

"Right behind you!"


	9. Chapter 9

" _Runa, where are you? We have to go."_

" _I told you I'm not going."_

" _Runa, you're being such a child about this._

" _I have somewhere else to be."_

" _This is for mama._

" _Mama wouldn't have cared about some stupid memorial in her honour. If she cared, she'd show up to see it herself."_

" _...Please come, Runa."_

" _It's a sham, Hroar, and I have a lead I need to follow up on. I'm heading out tomorrow, and it's in the opposite direction."_

 _Please... Please come and say good bye."_

...

The fire burned into low, red coals as each of them silently translated. The occasional spoonful of porridge, hanging forgotten in the air half way to its owner's mouth. It was hard to rule out a map to a place you didn't really know. Some of them had landmarks that could connect them to the information on other walls. Some of them had other walls point their continuances to them, rather removing them from play. A large pile of them, however, couple possibly be what they were looking for. And they were scouring them for any clues as to which it might turn out to be. It was surprisingly taxing work to be staring at what effectively amounts to ornate stencils for too long. Lines all blurred into one set of unrecognizable tangles after a bit.

Branwe squinted, traced, labeled, and generally toiled away at the work for hours. Finding more and more obscure reasons to disqualify a map, or identify the location of at least one of these places depicted. It had come up blank. Runa's general frustration level had been rising the whole time. She rubbed at her eyes often. She was irritable, and her progress was slow. Even though neither of them were actually progressing towards their eventual goal, she wasn't working through her pile of papers nearly as fast as Branwe. He had watched her, pained for her as she struggled with the written word. He looked at his own stack, ten or so thinner than hers at this point. She was up relieving herself.

He stood up, and took a five or so from her pile. He made sure they were from the middle, in case she remembered which one was on top or bottom. Quickly, and with a conspiratorial look around, he separated one out from the others. He then rolled up the rest and brought them to his own station. He started checking out the first of the three, and began checking to see if it mentioned Atherium anywhere.

Runa returned while he was translating. She went over to the camp fire to warm her hands.

"You never finished telling me about Senna and Serana," called Branwe.

Runa blinked, and frowned. She glanced over at the stack of paper at her workstation, and seemed to welcome to distraction. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and settled into the telling of a tale.

"One day, mama was visiting Whiterun on business. She was stopped by a man," said Runa. "He claimed to be from some kind of order of daedra hunters."

"How does this relate to... either of them?" asked Branwe.

"I'm getting to it."

"You don't always, is all."

"Hush. The man was in the town making efforts to enlist more recruits. He said they were needed to fight the ever-growing menace. She was curious, so she went along with it, and traveled with them to their headquarters."

"Do you remember the name of the order?" asked Branwe, pulling his notebook out. "It would be helpful to document..."

"Something or other about mourning, I think. I don't remember. Not sure if mama ever mentioned them by name when she told the tales, frankly."

"Oh," said Branwe, slightly disappointed. He made a note in his book to look up orders of daedra hunters active during that period. He underlined it. Then twice more for good measure. Then, to the side in parentheses, he added the words 'something to do with mourning in their name?' accompanied by a little doodle of a stick figure stabbing a daedra through with a sword. After a moment, he looked up, as if suddenly remembering what he was doing. "Please, continue."

"Ahem, yes," said Runa, stifling a chuckle as she leaned back again. She'd just witnessed the entire doodle, start to finish. Branwe's face burned. "Where was I... Ah, yes.

"So mama went to their headquarters to see what was going on. They gave her a task to investigate some ancient ruin where these daedra were looking for something important. Mama went. She knew that Nocturnal and the shadows would protect her if she was careful, and proceeded with caution."

"What were the daedra looking for?"

"An Elder Scroll."

Branwe's jaw dropped to the floor. "...Nerella the Calm carried three of them..." he whispered reverently. "And there are no accounts of where she got two of them..." said Branwe, his breath coming to him in sharp, short gasps. It was like the floor was dropping out from under him, leaving him floating. Suspended only by the purest awe. This was huge.

"Mama also found Serana there, and rescued her from imprisonment. After that, they traveled together for some time. Mama and Serana began to feel for each other. Time spent together. In combat. Saving each others lives. Taking in the beautiful views of Skyrim—Have you ever seen the northern lights over the misty sea? Nothing could be more beautiful—It would have been enough for most people to fall in love. Mama tried to rekindle things with mother. She tried desperately. But..." said Runa, with a shrug.

Branwe winced in response. There was nothing else to say. He ruled out the second extra sheet as he listened to the story.

"The order who had originally contacted mama turned on her. They wanted to kill Serana, I'm told. Mama and mother moved out of the city, so that mama could visit even if she was hunted. That's around the time when Hroar and me got adopted, as a desperate attempt to breathe life into the marriage."

"And your mother _stayed_ with Nerella?" asked Branwe, agog.

"Her whole life," answered Runa. "She loved her. And mama loved mother. Even if she couldn't return the kind of love mother wanted. But, they were both followers of Dibella, so it wasn't as if their marriage was ever exclusive..."

"Gods. What was it like being raised by that...? I mean..."

"I never had a great handle on the _normal._ So I'm not sure I could tell you," said Runa with a shrug. "We were isolated a lot. Mother, Aela, and Gunjar took me and Hroar to the markets. Sometimes. When Llewellyn or Rayya had business off the homestead, when we were older, we got to come along with them on occasion. But mostly we stayed home. Safe and protected, by people who could really have made trouble if anyone touched us," she said.

Branwe moved on to the next etching in his pile. He held it aloft in front of him, going through his check list of things to disqualify this one with. Nothing obviously jumped out at him, but... There was something about this map that struck him. He couldn't quite place it.

He pulled out his word book, and started translating a few of the notations around certain intersections. Their labeling was confusing, things like 'Agriculture,' and 'Medicine,' and 'Territories...' But there was something somewhat familiar about it. He pulled out his notebook.

"Runa! Runa, you have to see this!" he cried.

"What is it?" she asked, abandoning the fire in haste. Branwe held the map to her.

"It's a map of the Rielle," she said. Branwe opened his mouth to speak, but was caught off guard by how unimpressed she was. He just ended up just stopping instead. He looked down at it again, and frowned.

"Yes, but it's not _my_ map," he said, rather deflated.

"It's not?" she asked, earnestly confused now. He perked back up again.

"No, no it's not," he explained. "This is one of the maps we found, out near the entrance to the maze," he said. He pointed out a few of the words. "Forestry, herbalism, metallurgy... This is a directory!" he said.

"For Rielle?"

"Yes!" he beamed. "Rielle was a library of sorts in its day, wasn't it? Well, this is the map that helps you find what you need to find. The Ayleids weren't great at sorting it seems, but this might be the answer to finding the map we're actually looking for!" he cried.

"A directory?"

"Exactly! This is incredible." Branwe was grinning. He could _kiss_ this map in his hands. He set it down, and eagerly ran through some more transtlations. "Let's see, this one says... 'opium?' Wow, I'm surprised that's even in this dictionary. Here's a section, something about mountains... What's that other character... Ah, mining, good, we're getting cl...Runa?"

Runa wasn't listening. In the midst of his rambling, Branwe hadn't noticed her chilly silence. But when he turned around, she was like a glacier. Runa was looking at the map on the top of Branwe's stack. One of the maps he took from her.

"You took this from my stack," she said her voice lead.

"Huh?"

"My stack."

"I didn't take it from your stack," assured Branwe lamely.

"Oh, really?" challenged Runa. "Then why is my stack shorter, and this was one of the ones in it before?"

"...Oh, your _stack_... Ah, yes," said Branwe, blushing furiously. "I... I may have done that, yes. I-in my defense, you practically... I just..."

"You just what, thought you would take my notes, and rifle through my things?"

"Wha-? _No_! I just wanted to do something _nice_ for you!"

"Then leave my things alone next time!" Runa roared. Branwe flinched under it like he'd been lashed. "Don't try to be nice by taking my things! That was my map!"

"I'm... I'm sorry, I had no idea you'd feel..." he began.

"Don't give me that bullshit. If you had no idea, you wouldn't have hidden it!" she yelled. "Look at the stupid Nord girl, she can't read all that well, and has trouble with her letters. She won't notice if a page of hers goes _missing_!"

"Look, I didn't mean anything by it," Branwe assured hastily.

"Right, sure. Meant nothing by it at all."

"No, Runa, would you just... Would you just _sit down_?"

"I will not! You assumed I was stupid, and invaded my privacy!"

"I didn't!" he shrieked through his teeth, his frustration coming to a head. "I never assumed you were stupid. I assumed you couldn't _read_ well. There's a _difference._ "

"Not to you city-folk there isn't."

"Not to-?" began Branwe, but his indignation caught it in his throat like he was choking on bile. "Now that's just _low_ , Runa," he said, his voice oozing venom.

"I've been doing just fine on my own with this, I don't need your _help_!"

" _Well I need yours!_ " screamed Branwe. Runa stopped, suddenly confused by the direction this conversation went. He took a few ragged breaths.

The fire was the only thing to fill the silence now. That, and the muffled, but persistent howl of the wind outside. After an eternity, Branwe was starting to feel unsteady on his feet.

"I need your help..." he said, in a whisper. "I need it. And I hate it. I hate that I'm so weak that I need it." Branwe collapsed down onto his stump. His whole body was slack, as if the tension had suddenly been cut loose.

"I saw your survival skills," he said. He shook his head, and his eyes slid closed. "Don't think for a _second_ I don't realize that I'd be dead right now without you. If I'd been on this trek alone. Or if something happened to you... I'd have already been dead. You saved my life. I was just trying to save you... a little reading," he said, looking up into her eyes. Runa's face was impossible to read. She held the map in her two fists like she's forgotten it was there.

"It doesn't _return_ the favour," continued Branwe. "But it's something that I'm good at, and you... don't seem to be as good at. Much like wilderness survival is something you're good at, which I have no head for," he said. She was silent for nearly half a second, so he took that as a sign to keep going before she could speak. She was either listening in spite of herself, or wasn't going to listen. So either way, speaking his mind seemed to have no real consequence here.

"I wasn't trying to invade your privacy. I wasn't calling you stupid. I don't even _think_ you're stupid! I was just trying to do something I was better suited to in order to help you, that's all, I swear."

"I don't want your help," she choked.

"You don't want me to help?"

"No. I just... I don't want to..." she began. Her eyes welled with tears, and she threw the map aside with a cry as she tried to wipe them away. "I want you to help out, but I don't want your help!" she bawled.

"I'm... not sure I understand the difference..." said Branwe, a little dazed.

"Do the things I tell you!" she said. "Don't try to... You don't have the right... You don't know me!" she screamed. Branwe bit his lip.

"I know you're a brave, determined woman. You're trying to find your mama. Even though you're not as powerful, as quick, or as over-the-top-amazing as Nerella, you're trying," said Branwe. "You're doing the best you can. You're learning whatever skills you need to in order to keep looking for her, even though everyone you've ever talked to about this has told you it's a fool's errand. No one who's been let into this secret has been supportive. Am I close?"

Runa staggered away from his words as if they'd physically cut her. She looked drunk with pain when she tried to fix her gaze on him. Branwe met it steadily, with something resembling zen on his features.

"We've talked a lot more than you realized," he told her. "And I've been listening to you. I'm not the others. I'm not reading your books to tell you you're stupid. I'm not undermining your investigation. And I'm _not_ trying to set you back... Let me _help_ you," he begged. "Accept my help. Please, I'm trying to offer it."

She looked at him frozen. Her hands trembled slightly, her eyes wide with fear. She'd lost about three shades of colour, and close to going white. Branwe stood up slowly, and tried to offer a hand to her. She back reared away from it as it it were on fire, and stumbled up against the cold stone wall. Branwe put his palms out, and backed up a step. He stepped further away, making room by the fire if she wanted it.

Runa made no move towards it. Her eyes receding to that faraway, distant look, as the gears in her head were turning. Something might have been shaking loose. Branwe didn't know what, if anything. Patiently, he tried to make room for it.

Runa slid down the wall slowly. Her vest scraped against the stone of the wall as it was dragged down. With a soft plop, she landed. Her knees splayed to the sides, lost in her own world of thoughts. She curled over her lap for a spasm. Then another. Then she keeled right over her knees, and errupted into a fit of tears.

Branwe rushed to her side without his brain consulting his legs. His hand was on her back before he had time to question if this was the right move. He was making soothing, cooing noises, trying to get her to stop crying. She kept burbling something, which Branwe only understood after several iterations.

"Shhhh, you have nothing to be sorry about," he cooed. "You're fine. You're safe. Shhhh..."

"I'm so... So sorry..."

"No, Runa, shh."

"No one's... Even Hroar told me to stop... I just..."

"It's okay, Runa, you don't need to explain, shhh."

"I've just been all _alone..._ " she sobbed. "So alone, for so many years... Looking fuh-f-for someone... who most people think _died_."

"But they're not her daughter... Screw them if they want her to stay buried, or if they think she died. She's your _mama_."

"...Even Hroar thinks-"

"-Screw Hroar too," snapped Branwe. " He's not the one looking, you are. You're the one out doing things. You're here, in Rielle. If nothing else, do you know what a wealth of knowledge on the Ayleids this place is? Even if it _doesn't_ lead us to Nerella – which it might still – it's still a more incredible find than I remember seeing _Hroar_ 's name attached to," scoffed Branwe. Runa laughed. Just a little, in spite of herself, but she laughed. He pulled her shoulder to have her head rest on his lap. She sniffled, but didn't resist the gesture. He stroked her hair soothingly. "You're not stupid, Runa. Even a blind man could see that." She smiled faintly at his words, and said nothing. She just nuzzled her face into his knee to a more comfortable position, which also better hid her face.

They rested like that for a while. It took him a great deal of time before he realized that, at some point, she must had fallen asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Hours crawled by. Branwe sat, quiet and still, as he watched the embers burn down. The shroud of darkness slowly crept up to him, the rough smell of woodsmoke and cold stone blanketing him in his contemplation. His hand moved automatically, his eyes glassy as he looked... nowhere. A rhythm was established in the faint hum still carrying a tune. It was echoed as he stroked Runa's hair, lulling her.

She looked strange from here. The lines of her face were softer, held less rigid. She looked to be asleep more deeply than usual. But then, Branwe thought with a start, he'd never seen her sleep. His staunch guide, taskmaster, and companion. He had traveled with her for over a fortnight now, spending every night together. And somehow she'd never slept while he was awake. He smirked wryly, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She's been alone in this, he thought. He was her guest on this expedition, not her partner.

It had taken some doing, but Branwe had finally managed to extricate himself out from under Runa's head. He made an executive decision. He was handling the camp this morning. He glanced back at Runa to make sure she had everything she needed. The bear pelt Skoljar had given him laid over top of her. She was sprawled out on her stomach, the line of her knuckles rising up in a teasing arc to hide her mouth. She looked peaceful.

Branwe summoned up his will to turn away. With a deep breath, he faced the kitchen area, and began laying down the kindling for a fire. Runa had shown him the best way, and he mimicked it the best he could. He went to bucket in the corner, and carried it to the fire. From it, he poured enough water to fill the cooking pot. It would take time for that to boil. And while it did, Branwe went to Rielle's entrance, and shoveled more snow into the bucket to thaw for later. He checked through their other rations, and rotated what dried foods needed rotation.

It was by the time Branwe had finally exhausted all his options at productivity, and started chopping firewood that Runa began to stir. She opened her eyes blearily, and crawled along her elbows until she was sitting up. Her face still puffy with tears and sleep. Her hair was a complete mess of frizz and tangles. She looked like she was missing something vital and vibrant inside herself. Like it had been sucked right out of her. Her face was palid, and her smile wan.

Runa looked at him uncomfortably. Like she was trying to figure out how to make herself say something.

"Branwe," began Runa. "I owe you-"

"You don't owe me anything," said Branwe, immediately cutting her off. He shook his head firmly with the gesture, and hefted his axe cleanly through the grain of the wood. It fell with a clatter.

"...I do, though," Runa whispered, though he she had waited until the sound had died away completely. Her silence continued long enough for Branwe to place another piece to chop. "I accused you of-"

"You've been alone on this for a long time," said Branwe smoothly, cutting her sentence at the same time as splitting the log. He flashed her a secret little smile. The kind he might share with only one person, in a room of many. Although they were alone, the smile was their secret. Runa blinked, half to clear her eyes, and half because she was wincing.

"...Yes," she breathed. "I've been at this a long time. That doesn't-"

"You were suspicious. You were afraid. You were insulted by what you thought I was doing. Right?" asked Branwe, once again not allowing her to finish. Runa nodded hollowly.

"And I wasn't doing that."

Again, she nodded.

"And so there's nothing to apologize for. It was a misunderstanding."

"But I still-"

"After my existential breakdown," said Branwe, raising his voice to talk over Runa once again. She bit her lip, his point made. "Which, I assure you, there are gonna be more of them if this keeps up... After that, as far as I'm concerned, you're entitled to a little paranoid breakdown." Branwe shook his head with an eyeroll for effect.

"I mean, remember who we're chasing," he said, his tone lowering with awe. "We're on the trail of _Nerella_ the _Calm._ She may just be mama to you, but to anyone else in the civilized world, she's a big deal," he said. "It's hard work tracking her movements. And it should be, she's one of the best of the best. People trying to do the impossible – or even things that only _seem_ impossible – end up having breakdowns occasionally. Welcome to life, Runa. Here, have some oats."

He ladled out a bowl and handed it to her, very consciously not letting her talk to contradict him. She took it in both hands, and looked down at it like it was a precious gift from on high. After contemplating her oats for a while, she looked up at him again, tears in her eyes.

"Thank you."

"That," he said, the secret smile warming. "I'll accept."

She paused, and looked down at her oats again. He hadn't seen her blush before, and imagined this was probably as close as she got to it. She was picking at the lip of the bowl with nervous fingers, seemingly unable to free herself from the compulsion.

Runa looked up after a moment, her brow furrowing into a frown of realization. The keen harshness was back in her features. Whatever vulnerability of sleep and tears was gone again, put aside in favour of her usual cleverness.

"Did you sleep at all?" Runa asked, looking around. Branwe chuckled weakly.

"Ah, that would be a no," he answered.

"I thought you seemed unusually brazen," she sneered. But it was chiding, which was a good sign.

"This was too brazen?" he asked, sitting back from the fire to eat his oats. "This, to the man who tracked you down and waited for you at an in you _might_ be at for three days."

Runa looked down at her oats again. A faint smile on her lips. She didn't answer, and just began to eat her oats.

"I'd like to have a look at the directory after we eat," said Branwe cautiously. He watched her for a reaction. She looked up at him, but it was otherwise neutral. "But after last night, I didn't want to... step on your toes."

Runa picked at her bowl again. Her breathing pattern became tightly controlled. Deep, purposeful pumps of air to calm herself. She nodded, firmly enough that no matter how smooth it was, it was obviously forced.

"Here." she said, handing it over. "We can get a clearer etching of it if you need it. The sooner we get what we came for, the sooner we can hand this find over to some guild of mages or historians who would go insane for the method of shepherding they talk about on some of these walls," said Runa. Branwe laughed. It was a little bit of a pity laugh, but she seemed heartened by it all the same.

"Good point. Eat up, then, or we may be stuck in here all winter," said Branwe. "Why _did_ you come here just before winter, anyway? Isn't that, like, the hardest time to get around in these parts? Isn't it also the most likely time we'll get completely snowed in and trapped?" he asked as he laid out the book next to the paper Runa handed him.

"Well... Yes, and no," said Runa. She shrugged a little tiredly as she began to explain around mouthfuls of her oats. "You see, it's one of the most dangerous season for the weather, but I'm from Skyrim originally. Cyrodiil just doesn't have weather that scares me all that much, you see. But the weather scares off bandits, looters, and cut throats who might find the smoke leaving camp, and decide to take our valuables from us. Whether they leave us alive or not hardly matters at that point, if we don't have enough supplies to make it back, or to hunt," she said. Branwe nodded.

"Well, I guess being from Skyrim has its perks, then," he said tiredly. "Thought I'm going to have to admit, I'm not a big fan of these blizzard things."

"Oh, that wasn't a blizzard," said Runa, waving him off.

"It was flurry after flurry of snow, _punching_ me in the face for hours, with the wind howling in the background! What was it, if not a blizzard?" he demanded.

"Snow?" said Runa.

"Snow."

"Well, a fair amount of snow? If it were a blizzard, the wind would have buffeted us down a lot more, and we would have been blind three feet in front of us for hours at least. That was just snowfall in the mountains."

"The saying that you Nords have a hundred different words for 'snow' is starting to seem more and more plausible..."

"They're the same words you have, you just don't use them!" countered Runa. "We have a lot of snow in Skyrim. You don't down here, so I see how you're not as good at talking about it as we are. We don't have nearly as many words to describe how good the asses of our emperors smell."

"Oh, low blow, little miss snow king. You have Jarls, just like we have an emperor. You may have failed in an uprising against us, but your Jarls still answer to _our_ emperor."

"But we aren't brown nosing with him."

"I can't help that my nose matches the rest of me. _I've_ never sucked up to any emperor."

"But wouldn't you, If given the chance?"

"That depends. If he looked like he might buy me a pony, I might."

"I bought you a pony."

"...Are you the _emperor_?"

"This conversation has gotten entirely too silly now," said Runa, shaking her head in confusion.

"Aww, we were just getting on a roll. We could take this on the road."

"No, I don't—What are you even—Is this what you _did_ with your time before you came along with me?"

"Only when I was in a good mood."

"Gods helps us all if you ever find yourself in a _great_ mood," mumbled Runa with another bite of her oats.

"Oh, I know, right? I intend to write comical summaries in every book in the Royal library if that day ever comes."

"You're an evil monster just waiting to be unleashed."

"Awww, thank you, Runa. That's one of the kindest things anyone's ever said about me."

She shook her head, and turned her attention back to her bowl, stirring it around. She tapped the spoon against the surface of the oats, which made a surprisingly satisfying slapping noise, before she shoveled another bite into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Branwe laughed at her awkwardness with the silence. He ate his breakfast, and translated what few bits of writing were on the map, from one of the areas that he hadn't already drawn.

By the time he'd done most of the work he wanted to, and had some sense of what was what, Branwe looked up to see Runa cooking. He blinked, and looked at his workstation. Somewhere along the line Runa had taken all their dishes, cleaned up, completed the stocking of camp that he'd started, and was making lunch. A growl of his stomach indicated that she was probably doing so because it was actually lunch time already.

"You resurface," remarked Runa when he started to stand up. "So, have you translated all the directories?" asked Runa.

"Yeah, everything on that map," he mumbled. Everything seemed cloudy, and a little unreal after looking at one piece of paper for hours. He smiled vaguely, trying to appear perkier than he felt. "I made a second copy of it, too, so that we could give it to whatever mages or historians without losing ours," he said. "There are one or two pretty unlikely places, but they're possibilities. This place, though," he said. "'The Hall of Secrets.' It looks like it wasn't one of the public record areas."

"So it's going to be a little harder to get to, with traps and the like?" asked Runa.

"I guess?" Branwe answered, wrinkling his nose. He hadn't really thought about anything but the puzzle. This was how someone had organized a library, and where they had put the information he might have been looking for. He didn't think about how he'd find that information actually. "I mean, I don't really know too much about these Ayleid ruins, that's more your department. But this would be more sensitive information, with more protection."

"I just hope it wasn't sealed inside another of the Welkynd-walls," sighed Runa, her voice frayed with preemptive frustration. "Or it'll be another two hundred years before we find it. Unless we just start bashing walls down."

"Oh, it's not going to be that bad," said Branwe, fully aware he didn't know what he was talking about. "The Ayleids had to have some way of getting to that information in at least a little more of a hurry than that, didn't they?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Well, I guess I've been surprised before. No one expected sweetmeats to actually taste good."

"You can't even fathom being serious for more than a minute at a time, can you?"

"Not really, no. It's just not what comes naturally, sorry," said Branwe with a shrug. Runa rolled her eyes, but she was clearly more amused than annoyed.

They rose, and once again broke down camp for the day. Then they were off. The trail they set upon wasn't blazing a new one for almost fifteen minutes of solid walking. Navigating the twists and turns had taken a toll on their conversation at first. Not to mention Branwe's lack of sleep beginning to pass the euphoric stage, and into the exhausted one. But eventually, the back and forth of bickering resumed. As soon as the path straightened out for a longer period of time, they were trading quips between bits of earnest business. Branwe read the map, and told Runa where to go. Runa watched for dangers as she took point, impressively spotting and disarming trap after trap. Any one of which would really have made Branwe's day a lot less pleasant than it had been so far.

He didn't say a word about it. But he hoped that this interaction, this division of labour, was proving clearly illustrating a point to Runa. He was helping her, and she was helping him. Honestly, she was doing more for him that he couldn't do for himself. He was just making her life more convenient, not actually _safer._ But he felt himself on shaky ground trying to reaffirm that notion verbally, so he simply tried to let it sink in of its own volition.

They were very close to the last few turns the map had described. This place was higher density with booby traps. A spike had nearly taken Branwe to task when he carelessly stepped out of Runa's path. He'd lost half an eyebrow to a fire trap, as well, and Runa had received a good, solid electrical shock for her troubles trying to disarm a trebuchet. They were shaken up from their expoits, but both arrived at their destination in one piece.

"Is this wall safe and free of traps?" asked Branwe, looking over one with some promising looking inscriptions.

"Yes, this one checks out," answered Runa.

"I vote we rest here for a bit. Translate tomorrow," said Branwe, collapsing against it. Runa smirked, and rolled her eyes.

"Fine, dinner. But I don't see how you can be so unexcited to be here."

"I don't have the energy to be excited," sighed Branwe, settling into a position of relative comfort. "I'm used to three square meals a day, not these strange catch as catch can octagonal things you have us on."

"Sometimes I think you talk just to hear your own voice."

"Sometimes I do. Without more people to talk to, I might forget what it sounds like."

"Well, then sing something. You're a bard, aren't you?"

"Not yet, but a prospective."

"How will you become one if you don't shut up and start singing?"

"By following you around and asking annoying questions, I thought that part was obvious."

"Fair enough, why'd I even bother asking."

Branwe yawned loudly. He was desperate for a sleep. "So this is the place we're looking for," he said by way of changing topic. If for no other reason than to keep himself awake. "I don't see one of the maps we're hoping to find."

"It might be written out. There was a certain era of Ayleid carvings that just wrote everything out," said Runa.

"Sometimes it's nice to have an expert around, I guess."

"I'm no expert, I've just done this before."

"That makes your expertise comparatively... Um, experty. To mine. Compared to... I'm hungry, and incapable of being witty."

"That's no different than usual," said Runa with a grin. Branwe shook his head scolding.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. You just wait for these perfect openings I so generously give you, that's all. Realistically, that means of the two of us, I'm the cleverer one, since I leave you the openings."

"Really? Then why are you so desperate to claim credit for them?"

"Because while I may be clever, I'm apparently not very bright. Now give me my jerky before I start channeling my inner four year old," order Branwe.

"Yes sir, whatever you say, mister clever, sir," chided Runa.

"Ah, yes, my proper respect due to me," replied Branwe, swiping the jerky from Runa's outstretched hand and stuffing it unceremoniously into his mouth. Runa readied the rest of the meal. He chewed. And further chewed, as it was jerky. "I wondah," he began, around a mouthful. "If weah gon' mak phun of me all day, or if weah gon do some inveshtigahting," he queried. Runa shook her head.

"Because clearly, your presence over-shadows my other concern, which would have driven me to ignore these findings. Thanks for reminding me to do what I came here for."

"No need to be sharcashtic," pouted Branwe.

"Of coursh."

They ate quickly, looking curiously at the carvings as they did so. Despite days of translating these very runes, neither of them could do much more than guess at a few common words. They were mostly silent after the quips, both realizing on some level how close they were to finding the next clue. The clue which would lead them to something new, something closer to their goal. They were more reverent about this meal, than either one would admit. Even more than they even knew one any conscious level. For them, this was the end of an era, short though the era may have been. Their last meal of ignorance.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning passed quietly. Nothing could be said into that tight sense of anticipation. Runa and Branwe both felt it. It overwhelmed their dreams as they slept. It crushed them into silence when they woke. It choked their appetites to a slow crawl for breakfast. When they finished their meal, it made them hesitate to their cleanup. Not really like either of them were refusing to move on, but neither of them were ready for what moving on might mean.

Branwe and Runa ended up sticking together. It started off as a reluctance to separate in the dark, and heavy feeling hallways. Unlike at the entrance, the weight of the earth above could be felt. It The distant howling of the wind had been left behind. In here, there was no sense of time, no sense of air. It all felt stale, and very, very final.

But it turned out their proximity was a boon. Everything in this directory was closer to what they wanted. Locations of various important sites the ancient elves recorded. Volume upon volume, carefully preserved in stone tablets housed in massive shelving. Branwe's jaw dropped when he thought about the size of it.

They found a central area to set up in. Runa was better at recognizing the maps of various eras of Aliyed history. She would grab rubbings, read out promising entries, and generally scout. Branwe, meanwhile, sat encircled by rubbings, notes, translations, and books. We was wholly consumed, reading and translating all the things Runa handed him or asked about.

It was hard to tell how fast they were going. It felt like they were tearing through his section with speed hitherto unseen in their exploration. They knew they were looking in a likely place, so if there was anything to find, they wanted to find it. They weren't scarce about the walls. They moved on as soon as they were sure it wasn't the right one. It was just that there were so many.

They broke for lunch at an arbitrary time of day. After a few moments of settling out of the work-fugue, Branwe realized he was cripplingly hungry. He wondered how long they'd actually spent working. The work had coated him in a thin brown layer of grime. The dust in this place had heaped and piled in great droves. Runa was covered.

Translating an entire map, one at a time, had proven to be the wrong way of going about it. Branwe had looked for easier and easier ways to find any clues. He learned rather quickly that the sections were sorted. They were sorted by location, of all things. He stabbed wildly, at anything nearby t begin with. Then he'd started just... pick a likely word, like Atherium, or mine, or danger. He'd just scan each tablet rubbing for that. When the search yielded, he'd spend some time, or add it to what he'd aptly titled the 'likely' pile. When it didn't, he set it aside. Currently he had several piles of varying likelihood.

It was on the third scan through the 'maybe, but probably not' pile that he finally saw it. It had been written in what he'd come to believe was an Aliyed euphamism. 'Singing rock' was easier to recognize, but "god's blood rock," where the word blood and rock were a homonym was what it was called here. Branwe's eyes bulged when he recognized it. It wasn't a visual map, but a visual map could be reconstructed from the complicated instructions of it. It was, as Runa had predicted, a completely written out map. Every instruction and depiction was a written word, not a pictograph.

"Runa, come have a look at this!" called Branwe.

"Anything good?" she asked, rolling her shoulders as she wearily walked to him. She blinked, as if for the first time, becoming aware that she was tired.

"Here, didn't Rellis Road map talk about a location in the Crested Hills?" he asked. Runa looked thoughtful.

"Sounds right. 'Sunward of the Line of Teeth,'" she recited.

"Right. Well, here's the Line of Teeth," said Branwe, pointing to a line he'd translated. "I think this is a map of the Crested Hills. And here..." he said, pointing to a passage. "This just says "a blanketed dark, or dimply lit place, in the roots or bases," and a couple of passages later it says 'To find the bloodstone of god.'"

Runa swallowed. Under the filth, she paled a few shades. She turned, and looked him dead in the eye.

"Be sure," she half whispered. "Be sure before I celebrate." Her tone was wavering, but she looked like maybe she was trying to hold in a smile. By not breathing.

She stood stock still over his shoulder as he worked. By the time any significant portion had been done, they were sure this was the one. They'd actually found what they were looking for. It was still tense and silent work. Reconstructing a map from an ancient, poorly understood language is never a thoughtless process. Runa attended Branwe, and handed his tools tools to measure, and draw the map. When they had it nearly done, Runa noticed that some of the instructions weren't landmarks, they were directions for letters. Words, and names of places, drawn right into the instructions. Once they were clarified, one of them actually mentioned an Atherium vein by name.

they literally jumped for joy, celebrated, and embraced. This was the find, this was what they were looking for. The rest they could turn over to the mages guild as a wealth of knowledge for them to reap. But Branwe and Runa had found the proof of the Atherium vein they were looking for. They shared a warm camaraderie with each other they whole way out, and the entire time they were breaking down camp to leave.

They had actually managed to find proof of an Atherium vein within Cyrodill. One which had neither been controlled by the Dwarves, nor had it been depleted. They had found exactly the evidence they needed.

They were on the trail of Nerella the Calm.

And they had found a lead.


	12. Chapter 12

_Dear Rithleen._

 _I hope this finds you well. I would ask after Fuzz, and Edwore, but I don't know when I'm going to be anywhere that letters can find me. Runa and I are back in Bruma for the night, our trip to the mountains completed. The things we found there are beyond describing. Libraries, vaults of knowledge, massive collections of thoughts people had eons ago... It's really awe inspiring to think about. And the fact that I was there... Let's just say, some day soon my name is going to have to be on some major publication for helping find this. Even if it's just an honourable mention._

 _I know I said I'd be back for the harvest, but we're really on to something out here. Runa has agreed to let me accompany her for a bit longer while I work on my thesis. You were right, traveling with a Nord is hard work. But I'm learning so much! I can't wait to tell you about it in person. But that's going to have to wait. I'll be heading into Skyrim soon, I don't know exactly where yet. If I make it to the rift, I'll try to find some nice mead to send back; I know you've always wanted to try some._

 _I've learned a little bit of the written language of the Heartland High Elves. I can read a fair bit of it without even needing a phrasebook any more, which is really exciting. I know you won't care too much, because it doesn't help the grapes grow, but still, it's really exciting._

 _I wrote a new song. I call it 'the sting of snow.' It doesn't have any lyrics, but people still seemed to like it here. I'm earning my keep, too. You'll be happy to know that when I played at Skoljar's taphouse, I managed to pay for my room, and then some. Not just a waste of time!_

 _I miss you guys. It feels like years since I've been home, but I know it's been less than a month. Some time soon I hope we'll be staying at a place long enough that a letter you send would make it to me before we move on. I want to hear from you, but we've got to keep moving before the weather gets too bad. I hope I'll be able to come back by summer at the latest._

 _Your loving brother,_

 _Branwe._

 _..._

The weather upon leaving Rielle was light. Trekking downhill was remarkably easy, comparatively. They greeted Skoljar, who was pleased to see them again so soon. They stayed with at his place the night, and Branwe entrusted his letter to Rithleen to him for delivery.

Skoljar released their horses to them for his fee, and sent them off with well wishes, and full of mead. Branwe had no idea how much more pleasant riding was when one was drunk. It was a lot harder, though. Runa laughed at him when he fell off of his pony. Well, she laughed the first time. Subsequently she just rolled her eyes, and threatened to leave him behind. But giddiness and bravado had started to take hold, and Branwe took his drunkenness as an excuse to act foolish. He galloped after her, riding teeteringly on his saddle.

"Woohoo!" he hollered. By this time he was getting used to the rhythm of a horse's stride. But at this pace it was still slamming his butt into the hardened leather with every cycle. He laughed, coaxing Alameda to sprint, and hop.

"You're going to regret this tomorrow!" called Runa. She was a ways behind him by now.

"Tomorrow's an eternity away!" he cried back. "Today I ride like an idiot!"

"That you do."

…

The cave they were looking for was in Skyrim only in the technical sense. It was just on the border of the two, and likely parts of its underground structure were in both countries. Still, even with the snow, it was an easy ride. All paved roads, Alameda following Shadowmere's path like a cart following a plow. Runa had made them stop along the way to buy better equipment for keeping the horses warm. After all, they were going to go underground again, and their horses were going to be alone for some time.

"Wait, did you see that?" asked Runa as they came upon the mine's entrance. She was frowning off into the distance, eyes flitting from one thing to the next as if something had vanished from her vision.

"See what?" asked Branwe, though he had the good sense by now to lower his voice in case there was something to see. "I see trees, and a very inviting cave," he finished, shivering slightly. Runa held still, listening and looking for a moment. Branwe followed her lead on that. Soft clumps of snow drifted down, silently blanketing the land. But Branwe didn't see anything unexpected.

When Runa's shoulders finally broke their tension, and she finally breathed in, Branwe caught her eye with a questioning look.

"Thought I saw... Something. Not sure. A glimmer," she said vaguely.

"A glimmer?" asked Branwe. "Spriggans?"

"No, more..." she drifted to a halt. A sound, like a word bubbling up from her lungs. But it didn't take shape. "I don't know, I guess it was nothing. Let's go inside."

They tied up the horses a little ways off from the cave. They both turned their attention to the gaping hole in the mountain beside them. The mine would start further in, but the outer cavern was lined with the grey stone the Aylieds were so fond of using. Though ornate archways, and glowing stone chandeliers all cleared up once they opened the passage to the mine.

"After you," said Branwe.

"City-folk manners?" chided Runa.

"Um, person-who-doesn't-want-to-be-eaten-by-traps manners..." corrected Branwe. Runa laughed.

"Fair enough," she agreed.

They stepped inside. The mine seemed more like a slimy hole in the earth than anything mer or man made. Whatever tricks the Aylieds had used to air out their structures and keep them dry and traversable hadn't been used here. It was unpleasant. The ground was slick, and no surface could be touched to stabilize without acquiring a thick sheen of some unspeakable goo. By the time they were inside enough that they _needed_ their torches to see by, they were both already coated in a horrifying brownish green coating from their knees and elbows down, as well as their rumps, and a few miscellaneous splashes. The trek was a bit miserable. Falling down was just going to end up being part of it, they'd both discovered at some point. The trick was making sure it wasn't down a ravine, or on top of each other. There were a few calls closer to that than one might have liked.

There were small pools of water off to the side of the path all the way down. Lukewarm, most of them, which was surprising given that they were as far underground as they were. But Runa's map suggested their was a hot spring up the mountain a ways, which must have fed down into here somehow. It helped explain the humidity, and massive growth of every kind of cave slime Branwe was rapidly becoming a connoisseur of.

"The brown stuff is a bit firmer," he commented.

"The white stuff is sticky," answered Runa.

"Sticky, like better to step on than the green stuff?"

"No, sticky like you'll lose a boot."

"Gotcha. Well, I guess I'll stick with the slippery green stuff."

"I thought you said the brown stuff was good?"

"No, just for hands. It seems to only grow on the walls."

"Pity."

"Wait, did you lose a boot?"

"Not quite, but I only touched a toe to it."

"Oh, good."

"Can you imagine trying to do with barefoot?" laughed Runa.

"I'd rather not," said Branwe, feeling a sickening sensation in his stomach as something under his hand when _splorch._

They battled their way over a log jam, rendered nigh impassable from rotting wood, and lack of stable footing. Branwe managed to boost Runa over it. He then climbed through it, a task made possible because of his small frame. Runa helped him though, catching him from the descent after the jam. It was significantly colder here, the warm air that traveled from the hot spring apparently not usually making it this far. The logjam had acted as a sort of air dam, as the change was a sharp contrast. Branwe shivered in spite of himself.

It was easier to breathe here. The air was dryer, and there were presumably fewer spores trying to take root in one's lungs. The mine was better preserved here, too. Once could actually make out the remnants of ancient tools left behind by their owners, now. Branwe caught himself wondering if an Ayleid pickaxe had ever been recovered before, but made no move to ensure it.

The tunnels went on for quite some time. They were rough hewned, and unadorned. Hardly more than bare walls of exposed stone, and whatever metal scaffolding had survived. The conversation had been restricted to the necessities for travel since they entered the mine part of the ruin, as everything else would have been a distraction. Although after many more twists and turns, the walls began to take more shape. They developed a deliberateness to them. First only in form. Then, after a time, there were reliefs, and carvings. Finally, Runa spoke.

"I can't believe this... These... These are Nordic ruins..." she said with a heavy frown as she looked around. Branwe looked up. Grey stone, elongated people, and lots of scrollwork designs.

"They seem Ayleid to me," he offered.

"They use the same materials, but... look at these carvings over here," she said, holding her torch up to a nearby wall. It was relief of a woman, hands outstretched to the sides. There were wreaths of fire around her, and a hoard of smaller people bowing to her. There were two dragon heads at either side of the piece, breathing fire overhead. "Dragons so rarely showed up in Aleiyd folklore like this. Furthermore, this woman is human."

"No, she's not, look," said Branwe, leaning in closer. "On her face. Those marks are Bosmer tribal tattoos."

"She still looks human."

"How can you tell?"

"She's... tall."

"Yes, compared to the rest of them, she's eighty stories tall," admitted Branwe. "I think we can assume that's a metaphor."

"It's in the face, I guess, she just looks it to me."

"I think it's one of those 'see what you want to see' sort of things, then. She looks elven to me."

"Well, either way. This style of relief isn't Heartland elven. That's Nordic."

"You're sure?"

"I've been in too many Nordic ruins to count. I know it when I see it."

"Sidestepping the fact that you already counted your Nordic ruins to me once, what's it doing in an Ayleid mine, then? Weren't they barely contemporaries?"

"Barely," agreed Runa, her eyes still locked onto the carvings on the wall. They'd stopped to examine them. "The second king of the Nords was ruling at the time of their fall, so there was _some_ overlap."

"We're already into some pretty heavy implications with the Heartland elves having access to Atherium," said Branwe, taking off his pack to get out some paper and charcoal. "We need to look at this more closely..."

"So this ruin might represent an alliance between Nords, Aylied, and Dwarves, maybe," mused Runa as she laid the paper over the relief. Branwe reached forward and braced one side of it so she could take a rubbing.

"Well, a connection, at least. Maybe not so much an alliance," he added thoughtfully. "Just because they were in the same place that the same time, or maybe one after another even, we don't know, doesn't mean they were getting along when they did it. Oh, look over there, I think that may prove my point."

Runa looked where Branwe bid. She sneered.

"Yup, that's definitely a group of men impaling an elf," said Runa thinly. The two exchanged glances for a moment. Runa mimed an invisible spear at Branwe, who laughed in spite of himself. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"Well," he said. "That was tasteless," he said sheepishly.

"Ah, some of the best things are," said Runa with a grin, heading in deeper. There were more Nordic carvings around. Fewer and fewer of them, as they went deeper, depicted people. Neither man or mer. First it started with depictions of worshiping a flame, scores of little people praying to it. Then, as they passed in more, there were men worshiping light, or the sun. Then flames around light, no men in the depiction at all. It was eerie to watch the progression happen so rapidly against these walls after having spent days in the ever-still, unchanging landscape of Rielle's library. Some of the carvings were hundreds of years older than others back there, but they were all done in the same style, the same handy work, and the same intention. This place... This place was fast. Each carving was reminiscent of the one which came before it, but not much like the one which came after. And all the carvings were probably made around the same hundred year period, probably even closer together than that. Branwe was practically watching the transition from worshiping a deity, to worshiping... an energy?

"What do you think happened here?" he asked as they passed by a few more of these carvings. Runa was squinting at them as she walked, but wasn't letting herself be stopped by them. She shook her head.

"I don't know," Runa answered. "It's hard to get a good sense of the history here. Men live shorter lives than elves, and in ruins like this, it shows."

"Yeah, it's not as static as Rielle was, I guess," agreed Branwe. "Couldn't think how to put that into words until you said it."

"If I had to hazard a guess, which I don't want to get too attached to, I'd say that the people who lived here were deep into Atherium somehow or other. And likely, it led to their downfall."

"Um, Runa, there's something strange-"

"Yes, if there's one thing that's true in this sort of business, it's that closer to the source of something rare, things get stranger. That creepy feeling in the back of your neck? That's a good sign."

"Oh. Good," croaked Branwe. "'Cause it feels like a knife, actually," he squeaked.

"You're being melodramatic again," sneered Runa.

"I don't think I am!" he squealed. Runa turned around to berate him.

Wrapped around his neck was a small, strong arm. It was covered in chain mail and leather, holding a very sharp knife. Runa tried to see the face of the attacker, but they were wearing a hood which very effectively shaded their face. They were too small of frame to even tell anything about them. They could have been a young Nord, or a mature elf, for all Runa could tell.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her hand gripping the handle of her hammer. The head ducked briefly to Runa's weapon, and the knife was drawn a little closer, causing Branwe to wince. A little rivlet of blood dribbled down his neck.

Runa released her weapon, though it was still strapped to her back. She put her hands in the air, fingers splayed, trying to placate the figure.

"Branwe, are you all right?" she asked slowly.

Branwe swallowed heavily, his face thrown back against the shoulder of his assailant to avoid the blade.

"I'm fine," he rasped through the terror. Everything in his vision was going white. "It's just a scratch." His knees were buckling, and his breath refused to some to him.

"I'm going to lower my Axe to the ground, all right?" said Runa, making as close to eye contact with the mysterious newcomer as she could. The stranger ducked their head in agreement. Runa pulled her axe loose from its holster, and began to slowly, and gently place it down, on the ground. The attacker's attention was very focused on her. Runa's eyes held steadily to the shadow behind the hood. The tension in the air was palpable as she slowly brought her weapon toward the ground. As she was almost near the ground, Runa's eyes flitted to Branwe's just for a split second. The beginnings of recognition took place on her face.

And then all hell broke loose.

Branwe lashed out, stomping with all his force onto his attacker's foot, and throwing his elbow into their stomach. He ducked, and quickly lost his footing, tumbling away down an incline of rocks. His attacker doubled over, but still managed to duck away, and roll to safety when Runa swung her axe for a killing blow. The assailant, pulled out their bow, and in one move as they distanced themselves, strung it, simultaneously using it to vault to a higher rock. Runa cursed, and took cover, dragging Branwe along by the scruff of his neck.

"Surrender now, or I swear I will end you!" screamed Runa. Branwe nodded along, breathlessly. Euphoric just at the fact that he was still alive.

"Yeah!" he said. "She'll end you. She was trained by the Last Dragonborn herself!" he cried. Runa spared a tired glance over her shoulder towards him, but did not take her attention off the newcomer down the hall.

Their attacker was perfectly still for three solid seconds. When a bow is pointed at you, three seconds is an eternity. It's enough time to recount the majority of one's life, and find it lacking. It's enough time to become acutely aware of the blood rushing in one's ears.

At the end of that three seconds, the small figure rose slowly from a crouch to their feet. They loosened the pull on the bowstring labourously, until the arrow was slack. The shadow, from this angle, had lessened. Black eyes peered at him from under the hood – well, probably at him, black eyes, as it turned out, were hard to read that way. The black eyes blinked, and the head tilted. Female, elven. The elf frowned, and looked confused. She looked at Runa, and stroked her chin thoughfully.

Then, she pulled back her hood.

And there she stood, eerily level stare watching him with easy grace. She was short, even for a Bosmer, but her bow being nearly twice the height of her still made for an imposing silhouette.

Nerella the Calm stood before him.

It took his mind a few tries to truly believe his eyes, for even though this was what he had theoretically been looking to find here. It still stunned him. She was... She was beautiful.

She looked more like a god than a mer. She stood proud, and confidently, like someone for whom fear had become just a word. A creature both mer and beast. Branwe found himself drawn to her. Her dark mahogany hair was knotted and matted into long dreadlocks which, in turn, were pulled into a pony tail, draping over a gold and cyan crown wrapped around her forehead. He saw the signature three scratches down the curve of her left cheek. She was really here. This was really Nerella the Calm.

"...Mama?" asked Runa. Branwe couldn't spare the attention to gauge her expression. He was too in awe of the being before him. "Mama... What... What happened...?" she asked, her voice reedy and thin.

Nerella blinked. Once, then twice. Almost like this situation were alien to her. After looking at the problem for a moment, she turned her head to face away. Somewhere on the spectrum of looking abashed, but barely registering. She put her bow back on to her back, and trotted down. Ever alert, ever responsive. She moved entirely silently, even as she hopped, and clapped on dry stone in a cave. It was really remarkable to see the grace that carried that silence. She moved more like a fluid than a person. As she trotted up, she pulled off her gloves and stowed them in her belt. She marched straight up to Runa, and gripped her daughter's hands in her own.

Up close, you would never peg them as mother and daughter. Runa was a good two feet taller than her mother. Not to mention broader, and more stocky across. The colouring was all wrong. Where Runa was wheat and buttermilk, Nerella was the colour of cedar and rich soil. And what's more, of the two, Runa looked older.

"Mama?" asked Runa again, her voice shaking slightly. "Mama, why don't you speak?"

Nerella averted her eyes a little harder, with an exasperated sigh. She made tired eye contact with Runa for a moment, making sure to hold it. She then proceeded to reach up to her neck demonstrably. She pointed to her voice box for a moment. She then opened her mouth as if speaking, and thrust her hand out in front of her as she did so. Though this meaning lost on Branwe, Runa seemed to grasp it.

"You mean... But I thought Dragonborn were the exception...?" she asked. Nerella smiled wryly, and shrugged at Runa, once again averting her eyes. Clearly she had thought similarly.

"What?" asked Branwe. "What's happened?"

"Her voice... It's become too powerful. She... You've heard of the Greybeards, right?" asked Runa.

"Of course," said Branwe.

"She's become like them..." said Runa. She looked back at her mama, who briefly deigned to sit still through an explanation of something she was clearly not happy about. "Her Thu'um would rip us apart if she were so much as to speak to us... Is that right, mama?"

Nerella nodded. After a beat, she stood up, and shrugged elaborately. She smiled warmly at Runa and reached her hands forward. Runa's eyes welled in response as she practically dove for her mama's arms.

"I missed you too," said Runa not bothering keeping any measure of composure. "Why did you leave us?" she asked, her voice warbling with tears.

Nerella's eyes looked torn between embarrassment and pain. She gripped into Runa's hold, and closed her eyes. Runa cried into her mama's shoulder, the relief of years washing over her.

"Where have you been?" she wailed. No one moved to answer, though it was clear Runa wasn't expecting anyone to. She simply needed to voice the question which had weighed on her for a decade or more. "Why did you leave us? Mother waited for you... Mama why... We missed you so much! So much..."

A/N: Not back on a regular schedule, but I got inspired to do some work on this. I've been tinkering around with my old save file again, and remembering what fun it was to write for Runa and Branwe. In retrospect, it seems weird I stopped right before posting this chapter, the great reveal. But there you have it. Enjoy! Hopefully I'll be back up to my old hijinks again soon, and I can actually write this story on the regular.


	13. Chapter 13

You look for something for a long time. You ask questions. You use those questions to seek out answers. When those answers are found, you try to figure out how to form better questions, to better find your answers. You hone your skill. You fall down, beat your brow, and bash your head against the wall, brute forcing your way through until you find a way to finesse. All that, all for one goal.

Branwe had rather expected things to make more sense ones they found Nerella's remains. Oh, sure, he'd said all those reassuring things to Runa when she'd had doubts. She believed Nerella was alive, and kicking, and in some kind of danger. Branwe hadn't really grappled with it. On some level, he had kind of believed that she'd died. Or something. Honestly, when he asked himself the question of what he expected, it wasn't the real, live, Nerella. He'd sort of internalized the idea that their goal was her remains. He thought the questions would be done, the answers would be found, and satisfaction would be had. He thought this story would be over, and he'd be waiting to hear back from the Bard's College in Solitude.

But finding this hero didn't change things for the better. Finding her had only thrown in more questions. More ways to beat his brow, and bash his head. Finding her mute made it worse, because she had the answers they sought, but couldn't tell them. So not only was she alive, but she'd actually ended up deepening the mystery, and fuzzying the goal. As he put a pot on for tea, Branwe reflected that he wasn't really sure what they were even working towards any more.

He looked over at Runa. The poor thing had cried herself to sleep. She was tuckered out, and swaddled in furs. He imagined she'd sleep the night. With Runa asleep the camp was silent under the sound of their fire. Nerella was up, and about, but she made no noise, even when she moved. The clack of stone didn't even register from her shoes echoing in a cave.

She moved with a stalking sort of grace, pouring around corners and practically vanishing into the shadows. He tried to keep track of her as she passed through this chamber between the various tunnels. But he would often catch her, moments later, somewhere he didn't expect. She was good. Of _course_ she was good. And on some level, Branwe knew she wasn't even trying to hide from him at all. She was just used to picking her way across shadows. It came as naturally to her as breathing did to him. Why be seen, when you didn't have to? She wasn't even trying. So she wasn't just good, she was _better_.

She walked straight up towards him from across the fire. The flames reflected off her solid black eyes eerily, like portals to another world of warped flame. The shadows festered on her face like physical entities. He started away from her. He still didn't know how to feel about all this. Only hours ago, Nerella the Calm - _Nerella the fucking Calm_ \- had been holding a knife to his neck. She obviously didn't mean him any harm at the moment. But that could change so quickly, and he'd be the last to know.

Nerella looked at Branwe benignly for a moment. Her face was very hard to read. It was one of the places she got her moniker from. After a long, entrancing staring contest, she smirked, and glanced down meaningfully at his pot of water. It was just starting to boil. She looked back at him, meeting his agog expression with a neutral one, and sat down across the fire from him.

He swallowed, and tried to pull himself back from over the edge of spooked. Obviously he wanted to ask her how she knew that, how she did that... But, frustratingly enough, she still couldn't speak.

"You... want some?" he asked lamely. She smiled very pointedly, a tinge of relief that he caught her meaning, and cocked her head to one side expectantly. He shrugged, and started making up two cups of tea.

Branwe was a little lost at how to fill the silence. Or even if he ought to fill the silence. He was already nervous about the fact that, well, this was really her. This was really Nerella the Calm. His nervousness made it impossible for him to think straight. He was spending so much of his energy trying not to fanboy out all over her that he couldn't spare the energy it would take to figure out something intelligent to say. Or do. He hadn't the foggiest idea what to do. As he was ladeling out the cups of tea, he felt on display. Watched, judged by the highest authority. It made his hands tremble. Oh gods, he hoped he didn't make a fool of himself.

He looked back up at her, and she was watching him. Those black eyes, and the orange glow of the fire setting her face like a wooden mask of doom in the darkness. She was a predator, alertly keeping track of him. Earlier when he assumed she hadn't been trying to hide from him, he didn't know if that was right any more. She might very well have been testing her limits on him, seeing how much she could have gotten away with. He handed her a cup of tea, still looking at her with increasing concern.

She smirked at him as she reached out for her tea. She handed him a coin purse in return. He looked down at her like she'd just offered him a cake out of nowhere. Drawing it closer to him, and into the light where he could see it better, he examined the coin purse. It was his.

He bolted upright indignantly and looked across the fire at Nerella. She was laughing silently, her hand stifling her mouth as her shoulders heaved up and down with the fits. He opened his mouth once or twice to say something, but nothing that came to him seemed in any way near sensible once it came time to say it. He ended up flapping his lips to a stop, and simply deflated.

"I don't think that's very nice..." muttered Branwe eventually. Nerella calmed down enough to smile at him knowingly. She smirked again, not unkindly, and shook her head. She watched him again, as she folded her hands behind her head, and settled in to lean against the wall.

"Why are you here, even?" he asked.

Nerella leaned her head to free a hand, which she used to tap the gem in her crown. It was a bright, cyan, glowing stone, roughly cut, but beautiful all the same. The band holding it in place was a fine, thin, elegant gold circlet, made with the aesthetics in mind. Vines, coiled around each other, and baby leaf peeking out from here or there. It was, beyond doubt, one of her own pieces. She tapped the stone on it. Once, twice, like it was just a hat she was wearing, not like it was as beautiful a piece of art as it was.

"Yeah," said Branwe. "I know you were looking for Atherium. But... Why? Ah, I guess you can't answer that... um," he said, trying to think of something better. Nerella looked over at Runa for a moment, then looked skeptically out from under her brow at Branwe. She sighed, and seemed to come to a decision. She pulled off one of her gloves, and began to pull of a sleeve of her leather tunic.

There, on her arm, sprawling with line after line, like an etching of some sort... There on her arm were marks. Bright, glowing, cyan marks, like tattoos, or holes revealing an inner Atherium glow about her. Branwe was once again, astonished by her. His mouth hung open for a moment, eyes wide, breath completely forgotten for the moment.

"What..." he began. He didn't even know what to begin asking. In response, though, Nerella simply shrugged, as if she either already knew the question, or she knew so little and any question starting that way had the same answer. A shrug. Which, given the magnitude of the mystery, seemed quite frankly, to be the perfect response. What else was there to say on that matter, even if she could speak?

"So, uh, you want to, what, to study it?" he asked, trying to get some sense of what the goal was here. He still felt so in the dark. Questions. He needed to know how to form better ones by getting answers to the poorly formed ones. Branwe was just being let in on things when it was only Runa to talk to. Now he was on the outside all over again.

Nerella weighed her answers, tilting her head side to side with a thoughtful grimace. It settled on a negative after a couple tilts. She touched the gem again. Then she mimed holding two small things under her ears. She pulled out a necklace from under her chainmail, which was just a small egg of Atherium on a golden chain, with an ornate cage around it.

She waggled the pendant demonstrably, and again pinched the air below her ears. Then she ran her hand, from chest to mouth, fingertips dragging across her neck. At the end, she opened her mouth and mimed speaking, whilst opening her hand into a palm-up offer.

"You think... You think earrings will let you speak?" asked Branwe. Confused didn't begin... No, no, confused actually covered it quite perfectly. Branwe was confused. Nerella, nodded to him perkily, evidently pleased that he understood the communication more easily than she had anticipated. Branwe shook his head, as if to let this new information settle into place somewhat. It still didn't really feel like it fit, more made sense. Hopefully his brain could digest it eventually, because it really hadn't yet.

"So, is the Atherium what's causing the Voice?" asked Branwe. Nerella winced a little, and shook her head. Sort of a yes and no at the same time. "Too complicated to answer, I take it?" he asked. Nerella nodded apologetically.

"Well... where do we start looking to find you the Atherium for your earrings, then?" he asked, all other options exhausted. Nerella shook her head, and bounced a pouch on her hip. It jingled slightly. She held it in her palm appraising, and looked almost satisfied with the amount. But only almost.

"Oh, you already found a vein?" he asked, perking up, as if he'd just caught sight of the wild goose finally. Nerella shook her head and waved her hand dismissively. She waved vaguely in every direction around her. "Bits an pieces here and there..." said Branwe. He deflated slightly as she nodded agreement to his understanding.

She looked at him wryly sympathetic, and shook her head. His deflation perfectly described her predicament. The expression of dark laughter on her face as she gazed off into the distance and shrugged again. 'What are you going to do?' was the communication of that.

"So you're close to finding what you need," he summarized. "Just a little more, and you can, what, go to the Atherium Forge and make yourself some magical earrings that'll let you speak safely?" he asked, trying to get his facts straight.

Nerella narrowed her eyes at him, looking him up and down with a newfound suspicion. She nodded slowly, as if somehow reluctant to confirm this information. There was clearly something she was trying to ask about. Or something she was trying to convey that she didn't understand. Some frustrated curiosity yanking on the cell bars of her mind. He didn't rise to the task of trying to guess at her question. With her narrowed eyes and dubious glare, she seemed to be of the opinion that keeping it close to the breast was what she was interested in doing anyway. Instead, he just decided to move on with his line of questioning.

"So, I guess, what more needs to be done here?" he began. Nerella patiently waited for him to move that question into the form of one she could answer. "Uh, well, it's not a full mining operation, right? It's just you, and your famously terrifying pickaxe." She nodded, and tapped the handle of said pickaxe with one hand.

It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, an ancient Nordic pickaxe. Smooth, curved lines etched into every surface, depicting the powerful elements the Nords of that time confused with gods. Fire, wind, water, tree, sun, and beast... All depicted handily on the same piece of equipment. Whatever the thing was made of was strong. It was said to be able to cut away at anything. It was a purplish grey sort of metal, with a rough finish to it that looked like nothing could ever be done to it to smooth out.

Branwe shrugged himself back to the questions at hand, his admiration for one of the many trinkets of his childhood hero notwithstanding. It was still hard to suppress all the songs he knew about her bow, Skendraal, let alone the ones about a pickaxe which makes men flee in terror. He chuckled to himself about that.

"Okay, though, I have to know," he said. "Did you find the terrifying pickaxe, or make it?" he asked with a conspiratorial smile.

Nerella chuckled silently, seemingly tickled by the question. She pulled it out of its holster on her hip, and held it in front of her with two flat hands. She looked at it fondly, bounced it, and tested its weight a few times. She smiled at it, and pressed it close to her chest for a brief moment, before returning her attention to Branwe.

She gestured that it had been given to her. She then laid the pickaxe on her lap, and danced her fingertips over it miming magic. She tapped her own chest meaningfully at this step, and nodded a little self-importantly. Branwe smiled.

"Why enchant a pickaxe to instill fear?" asked Branwe with a laugh. Nerella shrugged jovially, and gestured to the pickaxe itself, as if that were plenty enough reason. He laughed at her response, and admitted, he couldn't argue with it. The thought of watching grown men flee at the sight of such a thing was gut bustingly funny.

His thoughts were brought sharply back to sobriety when his eyes fell on Runa for a moment. His face cleared at the sight. Nerella spared a look too, and also calmed down.

"She's been looking for you for a long time," he said.

Nerella nodded, as if it were new information, but not surprising information. Nerella pulled at the cloth of her collar, revealing a little of her neck. Aside from the further Atherium coloured tattoos that were there – how many of them were there all over her body? - there was a little golden glowing mark on her.

"Who's tracking you?" asked Branwe, suddenly concerned. Nerella smiled, and jutted her chin toward Runa. "Runa put that on you?" he asked confused. Nerella nodded, a little proud. "When? Before or after she was bawling in a fit at having finally seen you?" he queried. Nerella tilted her head a little condescendingly at him, and shook her head.

"During..." he said. At her nod, he finished with. "Sneaky devil," to which Nerella's look of pride increased somewhat.

"So you won't be able to just slip out in the middle of the night, then," mused Branwe idly. Nerella smiled wryly, this time her pride mixed with annoyance. Pride was still winning out, though. "She's a clever one, you raised," he agreed. She nodded, and grabbed a tankard to hold aloft in a mock toast.

"You want me to actually fill that?" he asked. Nerella started to shake her head, but then stopped, looked thoughtfully into the bottom of the cup, and then smiled at him, handing it towards him hopefully. He laughed, and took it from her. "Hand me another for me," he said. She tossed him a second, which he caught clumsily, and she laughed at him for it. He dug into the pack, and filled the two glasses readily.

"So you have no mining crew," he started again. Nerella nodded slowly, illustrating that she was on the same page. "Were you just going to mine in random spots until you found enough Atherium to make those earrings you wanted?"

Nerella shook her head.

"Then, I mean, what's the plan here?"

She pulled out a journal from the folds of her armour. It was an old tome, but not on the same scale as the ruins they were in. Probably only a few hundred. It had a thin leather binding on it, with a buttoned latch. All of its pages were yellowed and warped, and had taken a significant amount of water damage. It was stiff to open, and crackled ominously when he tried. He glanced up at her for a moment to make sure this was okay and expected, and he wasn't going to break some important book.

It didn't open easily, but the one entry which seemed to have the least resistance to revealing itself read:

 _It's been a long time since anyone found a useable vein of this stuff. The Blackreach is teeming with it, I'm sure, but it's not just that it's hard to get to, it's that the ore is unstable. I don't know how to remove it from its source without it just going dark and turning into something like quartz as soon as I mine it. Some of the things the Dwarves talked about have to do with using an unrefined but active piece to coax stability out of a newly mined away piece... But I don't really understand what that means, let alone how to do it. Might be one of those stupid Dwarven riddles, though, and the answer's something stupid, like, 'shoot that paddle in the right order, even though we gave you a bloody logic puzzle we didn't actually want you to do any logic.'_

The rest of the entry seemed content to rant on about Dwarves for some time, before it gradually shifted over to Falmer almost imperceptibly, imparting very little useful information in the process. It was about to catalogue the various problems with the Dunmer as well, when Branwe stopped reading. He looked up at Nerella, and shrugged at her curiously.

"So, you think you understand the method this guy was complaining about?" he asked.

Nerella smiled uncertainly.

"Ah. Good. A gamble," said Branwe. "Those have never gone poorly for me before."

Nerella shrugged, and finished out her cup of mead. She tasted it with nostalgic bliss on her face. When she was done, she set it down, and stretched her arm demonstrably. She looked to him a moment, then pointed over to her bedroll. Branwe nodded absently, and stayed by the fire as she went off to bed.


	14. Chapter 14

The morning came without fanfare. Runa was up before him, as usual, thought Nerella was the first one up this time. She already had most of breakfast made with their supplies by the time Runa began to drag Branwe into a fit state of wakefulness. When they came over to the fire, Nerella wordlessly handed them each a cup of dark tea. It smelled rich, almost woody in some ways. Branwe looked at it dubiously.

"Mmmph! It's so bitter," exclaimed Runa after a sip. This time, Branwe had the opportunity, finally, to upstage Runa. He finished his sip without starting out of it, and smacked his lips together a few times.

"Well, it's bitter, but it's no quina-root tea," he said jovially. Nerella cocked an eyebrow at Runa, and smiled. Runa averted her eyes, and Branwe rolled his. "So I got hit by a trick your mama taught you," he said mock-tiredly. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, Runa. She's not dead, so you'll have to come up with your own material now," he told her. This earned him a sharp elbow to the ribs. But it may still have been worth it.

"So where are you going now?" Runa asked Nerella, trying to bring the conversation back to one of serious discourse. Nerella pointed upwards absently as she poked at the meats in the pan. "Up, out, to the surface?"

"Blackreach?" asked Branwe sipping his tea again. Nerella nodded, the same engrossing attention as before.

Runa whirled around to Branwe. Her eyes both searching, and suspicious. They narrowed with a dark jealousy. She bristled under it, rankled at him knowing that before she did. She said nothing, though, and turned back to Nerella, clearing her composure before speaking again.

"Are you setting off today?" Asked Runa. Again, Nerella nodded sort of absentmindedly. "Well, then I'm coming with you," declared Runa. Nerella's nod this time was mixed with a bit of a fatalistic shrug. As if to say, 'yeah, I figured.'

"Well, better count me in too," chirped Branwe. "I've been a tag along this long, after all. I'm not even sure I'd know how to get home anyway. And I may get an exclusive interview with the Last Dragonborn later, so, you know, that might be worth it."

"It'd have to be in writing," mumbled Runa.

"Not necessarily. She thinks she might be able to talk again once she-" began Branwe. He stopped suddenly. Nerella's was staring at him utterly still. Her head hadn't snapped up in any kind of comical motion. She just was _looking_ at him. And believe it, when Nerella was focusing her attention on you, you _felt_ it. Branwe's mouth had been hanging open. He promptly shut it.

"...Once she _what_?" demanded Runa.

"...I seem to have... Um," he began, eyes flitting from one incredibly dangerous woman to the other, both of them glaring at him. Nerella was staring at him with an utterly calm expression. Not chilly. Not wooden. Not disappointed. Yeesh, there was a reason she wasn't called Nerella the Destroyer, or some far more classic Nordic sytle name. It was hard to quantify why the calm, level stare of this Bosmer was so off putting, but it was. It definitely was. Branwe cleared his throat, and tried to appeal to his audience. "Perhaps this is a matter better handled between the two of you... Not... quite so... _aimed_ at me?" he chirped hopefully.

Nerella rolled her eyes, and handed them both their plates. She grabbed her own, and leaned back into something reminiscent to a pout, starring Runa down. Finally, Runa's attention shifted away from Branwe and to her mama. Her icy calm was thawing into brittle anger, but Nerella had just managed to tap into a tiredness to stay cool.

Branwe wanted to speak up, and tell Runa that she wasn't going to win a staring contest with Nerella the Calm, but honestly he was so glad the onus was off of him, that he didn't really want to draw their ire back any time soon. He popped a piece of bacon into his mouth, and chewed very slowly. If it came time for him to say anything, he wanted to make sure his mouth was full for it.

"You think you'll be able to speak again, and you don't want me knowing?" demanded Runa finally.

Nerella took a bite of her food and sighed heavily as she chewed. She made a few vague gestures, trying various combinations of shaking her head, waggling her hands, and shrugging, but none of them got any clear meaning across. She gestured to Runa. Then to herself and looked a little pained. Then back to Runa, and looked very pained. Even a little sad.

She rolled her eyes again, and shrugged very finally, as if giving up on trying to describe whatever it was. She gestured to Branwe, and pinched before her ear, as if tiredly granting him permission to finish what he was saying.

Branwe swallowed at length, but they neither of them seemed willing to let that deter them. His eyes flitted from the two of them, feeling very small under their gaze. He was forced to speak, or stay conspicuously silent.

"I'm... guessing she didn't want me to say anything because she didn't want to get your hopes up," began Branwe hesitantly.

He was interrupted when Nerella clapped her hands on her thighs, and with both palms up gestured to him again. 'This guy gets it!'

Branwe cleared his throat, and continued after the interruption. "She seems to think that by making earrings out of Aetherium she can... Well, I don't know why she thinks this will help, but she thinks she'll get to speak after she does that. Or at least, I mean, that's what she conveyed to me. There's... There's room for error in that translation of course, but that's the general information, right?" he asked Nerella. She nodded agreeably. That was the general information, sans any sort of telling detail, yes.

Runa bristled again, but quieted down. She speared a spud viciously, and rammed the offending tuber into her mouth. Up to that point, Branwe didn't know a person could chew like they hated something and wanted it to suffer.

"S-soooo," started Branwe. Runa wouldn't look at him. When he spoke, she turned her head away just slightly. "We'll be heading out today?" he asked. "For Blackreach?"

Nerella nodded. She pointed to the two of them, and made the gesture of reigns, her face questioning.

"Yes, yes we both have horses," said Branwe.

Nerella nodded thoughtfully. Still chewing her food as if she were actually enjoying it. Branwe frowned.

"Do you, though?" he asked.

Nerella paused, and looked up at him with a cocked head. It was hard to say if her expression was genuinely curious, or was telling him he'd just asked a stupid question.

"We didn't see any horses around when we got here..." Continued Branwe uncertainly.

"Yes we did," said Runa through gritted teeth.

"We did?"

"That glimmer I told you about..." She grumbled.

"There was a horse that was a glimmer? I don't think I understand..."

"No, that glimmer was Yaelinn."

"Yaelinn the glimmer... Yaelinn's a horse?"

"Sort of." And again, she rammed a spud into her mouth.

"...Oooooooooooh kay," said Branwe. She was clearly being cryptic on purpose. And had taken some sort of umbridge with him. So asking further questions was only going to annoy. Though it annoyed him to've had information waved in front of his face, and then withdrawn. Sure, he'd just accidentally ended up doing it to her, but he'd righted it as well.

Branwe turned to Nerella. She put her hand on her forehead, fingers pointed up and away. But when that didn't clarify anything, she just looked at him apologetically, unable to explain better.

He shrugged, and let it go, returning to his meal, the rest of which was taken in uncomfortable silence. Runa kept her eyes on Nerella, and pointedly didn't look to him. Nerella spared him a vaguely apologetic shrug, which seemed to make Runa just slightly angrier. Branwe decided to just keep his attention on the food. It was tasty, and wasn't angry at him.

They trekked back out to the entrance of the mine. When they were about to head through the slimy, nigh-impossible climb of the spring fed cave, Nerella shook her head, and led them off in a different direction. She tapped her nose knowingly, and walked down a path which came to a dead end. It didn't look like an abandoned tunnel, though, it seemed like a smooth stone wall at the end of other smooth stone walls. Branwe didn't understand the point of why it was built that way, or why it was there. Until Nerella pushed a stone, and revealed that it was a secret entrance. There was a ring on a chain dangling from the other side of the stone slab once it slid out of the way into its niche in the floor.

Nerella grinned at them over her shoulder, clearly somewhat pleased with herself. She puffed up her chest, turned around to dramatically point out the secret entrance. Runa glowered, unimpressed, and shoved her way past. Nerella shrugged. Perhaps a little disappointed with the lack of reaction. Branwe put his palms together, and mouthed the words 'thank you' to Nerella. He hadn't been looking forward to trying to go _up_ that hot mess of a slime tunnel, so this way out was a blessing. This reaction elicited a laugh from Nerella. And yet another over the shoulder glare from Runa.

The air grew cold and fresh remarkably quickly. They exited a tunnel no more than a few hundred feet down. Pine forest covered in snow bloomed out around them.

"Why couldn't we have gone _in_ that way!" cried Branwe once they were out. Runa dusted herself off, and stood back up to full height, the cramped tunnel having been harder on her than either of her shorter compatriots.

"Where are the horses, though?" Asked Runa."I don't know where this lets out." Her voice was still reigned in, tightly bound anger held back from the surface. Still, she wouldn't look at him. Her shoulders were riding at her ears. Branwe was trying not to take this personally. Trying to remind himself that she'd just had a lot of her world seriously shaken, and that most of her anger was probably at Nerella. But it still hurt to be on the receiving end of the cold shoulder.

Nerella distanced herself a little, leaned forward, and whistled sharply. A moment later, there was the sound of trotting in the distance. Around the bend, and out from behind some trees, there was a very white horse trotting towards them in the snow.

Runa's whole body relaxed. Her eyes welled up slightly at the sight of the beast. A misty expression of nostalgia washed over her face. She breathed out an involuntary sigh of relief, and rocked on her feet.

For a moment, Branwe didn't know why a white horse coaxed out such a strong reaction from her. From what he could see, it was a pretty horse. Very clean, very white. Big, strong. No saddle, or riding gear on it at all. But it was just a horse. Then with full force, he understood.

Yaelinn wasn't a horse. Yaelinn was a unicorn.

The beast before him stood about a hand taller than most any horse he'd ever met. Runa's horse, admittedly, was a few fingers higher still, but unlike Shadowmere, Yaelinn's impressiveness wasn't based on Branwe's fear of him. He was a strong, muscular animal, whose every curve and line was graceful and elegant. His features were a little elongated, like they'd all been stretched just a little thinner than his hose counterparts. He didn't look any weaker for the change. Just more graceful. Something in Branwe's mind conjured the image of waterfalls, rainbows, cascades of snow captured frozen in time when he looked at Yaelinn. It was hard to describe. He wasn't just seeing what was there, he was seeing some of the magic that made up Yaelinn.

His mane was brilliantly white, almost more like strands of light than of hair. Atop his head, a long and delicate looking horn was set. It wasn't the simple sort of wrapped lines he expected to see from a unicorn. It was etched with things that were almost images, pieces of it looked like gems were set into it glittering. Every time he looked at the horn, it was so intricate and specific, he could never really find what he'd seen the first time, and was lost in a whole new set of detail.

Yaelinn sized him up briefly. A snicker, and a curious glance was spared for Branwe. But mostly, he paid his attention to Nerella, whom he nuzzled affectionately. She stroked the long line of his jaw in return, and hugged at his face. Nerella looked over at Runa questioningly.

"We only tied them up with light rope," she said in answer. The anger Runa felt seemed to have been washed away in the soothing presence of Yaelinn. Her voice was back to the utterly fearless, and brilliant Runa Fair-Shield he'd met at the Starswain. The same Runa who had dragged him off to Rielle. It was a relief to hear it, rather than the brittle veneer of calm overlaying rage. "He could fetch them for us easily. Shadowmere's there, so it should be no problem."

Nerella brightened at the mention of Runa's horse – a gift from mama, Branwe remembered her saying. Nerella smiled, and whispered something into Yaelinn's ear.

Yaelinn whinnied a little, wrenching his head from her grasp. He backed up a step, reared up on his haunches. The light of the sun seemed catered just for him. Rays of light shimmered off his coat, and glimmered around him like a cloak of his own making. Time seemed to slow for a moment as his mane fanned out into gorgeous arcs of light, dazzling and bewitching. Yaelinn stepped, stepped, and turned around. Then he landed on his front hooves again, and dashed off into the snow. Flakes rose around him, clouding his path. No hoof prints were left in his wake, no testament that anything so beautiful have ever actually been there. Just the rapidly fading memory of something heartrendingly gorgeous. Nerella and Runa shared a rueful little smile at his exit.

"He's always been a bit of a drama queen," chuckled Runa by way of explanation.

" _YOU HAVE A UNICORN!?_ "


	15. Chapter 15

Do anything enough, and it becomes normal. No matter what it is. Branwe's sense of normal had seemed like the only real measure of it. Wake up each day, tend the vines. Harvest during harvest time. Squash grapes when the time is right. Make wine when the time is right. This was normal.

Runa's idea of normal had more to do with battle instruction. She'd had lessons from a young age to improve any skill she showed even the smallest interest in. She was rich. As in she never had to worry about money. Not as in she wore fancy clothes. But Nerella had a way with finding valuables. One day Runa had casually mentioned practicing picking locks on one of Nerella's safes, and spending the next ten minutes having to collect up spilled precious gemstones to avoid getting caught. The thought of seeing a stray ruby around was startling to Branwe. But it was normal to Runa. The place had been rotten with them.

Do anything enough, and it becomes normal. No matter what it is. Apparently, this was a lesson that Branwe simply hadn't digested about Runa and Nerella yet. It was slowly starting to rub off on him. With each passing day, a little bit more about their sense of normal became clear to him. It wasn't that they had _no_ sense of it, as he used to think. It was that their sense of it was so extraordinary that no one in their right mind would have _recognized_ it as normal.

But, take into account what Runa grew up with. These were people who just _had_ a demon horse made of old black magic. Shadowmere hung around, radiating dark magic, and they said strange things about him, like, "Oh, Shadowmere? He's just a big ol' softy." "He loves apples," or "He started speaking in tongues and standing over you while you slept? Oh yeah, he's got a sense of humour."

Do anything long enough. Normal is relative. These were people who had a unicorn around that they were on first name basis with. These were people, Branwe had to remember, who had seen, and killed dragons. One of them quite a few, quite a few famous ones, and had _eaten_ all of the souls of the slain.

Do anything enough, and it becomes normal. No matter what it is.

Here was Branwe, riding behind Shadowmere and Runa, and Yaelinn and Nerella, on Alameda, an old, disgruntled paint, who bit him whenever he tried to put on her saddle. Alameda was still holding a grudge for the time he'd had a drunken joy ride on his way out of Bruma. If this was the universe's decision about what was fair, he really didn't like the judgment it cast on him. It was one thing to hero-worship Nerella from afar, and never actually have to think of her as a real person. It was entirely another to be contrast right next to her, and see himself so utterly lacking.

At least Alameda carried saddlebags when they were strapped to her. Yaelinn apparently wouldn't have anything tied onto him. He very much was of the opinion that saddles and bridles, and anything of that nature was simply not for him. And if they're a magical creature that can cut any of their own bonds, what are you going to do about that opinion but bow to it? So Nerella rode bareback, with a light pack of her back, and had evidently gotten very good at traveling light. This was no surprise, though, that was all part of the songs. The unicorn, impressively still, had been left out somehow.

Shadowmere trudged along like a tank next to Yaelinn. He was a huge example of a horse. Or more accurately a horse-shaped-thing. He carried saddles freely. His mentality seemed to be closer to, "You're weaker, I'm stronger. So what if I carry everything? Everything you let me carry is just a testament to how much stronger I am than you." Hell, Shadowmere had the kind of contrariness to him that would probably have made putting lead in his saddlebags seem like a bizarre sort of complement. Or perhaps Branwe was so starved for company that he was ascribing more personality to the horses than was really necessary. Either way.

And Alameda. Well, she was a horse. She was intelligent like most horses, true. But she was just a horse. She wasn't on the same intellectual level as these two. She liked grass. She didn't really like Branwe much. Which frankly Branwe couldn't blame her for. From her perspective, her life was fine and dandy, until he came around and took her into the bleak and frozen tundra. Out here, where there were no stables, no grass, and no hay. Branwe'd probably hate someone who did that to him, too, if he wasn't gifted with a damn good explanation. Even still, sometimes during the trek, Branwe hated Runa for the very same reasons. It didn't help his morale that Alameda adored her.

Branwe rode in the back, watching Runa and Nerella do as much as they could to ignore each other, as Yaelinn and Shadowmere caught up. They nipped at each other playfully. They were obviously old friends. Or whatever equivalent magical horse constructs have to such a thing. Damned if he knew. He wasn't sure situations like this came up often enough that there were reasonable words to describe any of it.

Runa started to take the turn of road that led them to Bruma. Shadowmere got a few steps down the path, when Nerella whistled. He stopped, and Runna turned him around to look back. The dourness had returned to her over the day. More in the form of weariness than the dark jealousy of before. But still, she hadn't been speaking.

"What is it now?" She grumbled to Nerella.

Nerella glanced up the road to Bruma, and shook her head.

"We're near town," insisted Runa. "It's cold, and it's getting dark. Skoljar would be happy to host us."

Nerella shook her head again, firmly.

This threw Runa for a loop. "Why on _earth_ not?" Snapped Runa. "You'd rather camp out in the snow?"

Nerella winced, and shrugged. She offered her hand out to Runa, as if to tell her that Runa was welcome to go there. But Nerella then gestured to herself meaningfully, looked to Bruma again, and shook her head. She pulled her hood around herself. She'd been secretly alive all this time. Presumably, she wanted to keep it that way.

"Why are you keeping this to yourself!" Snapped Runa. "Do you know how many people would celebrate if they knew you were alive? Do you know how happy people would be to see you?"

Nerella stared Runa down with tired patience. She crossed her arms atop Yaelinn's back, and settled in to wait.

"I don't understand!" Wailed Runa.

Nerella sighed, and nodded her head sadly. She looked down at the ground for a moment, the back up at Runa under heavy lids.

"Fine," spat Runa, yanking at Shadowmere's reigns to turn him around. There was only the mildest of grumbles from the massive beast indicating his indignation. He was otherwise obedient. "We'll camp out in the cold."

Branwe had to admit, he would have liked a warm bed, a nice bath, some hot mead by a proper hearth. He would have liked to see Skoljar again, and tell the old man some more stories. He thought of dozens he knew, and there was something satisfying about telling a story to someone who really wanted to listen to one. But he had to admit, he didn't know Nerella's stakes yet. She couldn't really tell him, but there were secrets she obviously wanted kept. And when someone who's dealt with threats like Alduin the Eternal handily makes it clear that you're not to do something, well... Branwe conceded that it would probably be unwise not to listen to such a warning.

So without complaint, he helped set up camp that night. He tied up the Alameda for the night, getting rather practiced at avoiding her teeth by now. Shadowmere and Yaelinn were left loose to roam if they felt like it, but they mostly hung around camp. Branwe felt a little bad that only his mount was tethered to a tree. He watched her stand aside, lonely and outcast from the two magical creatures she'd been keeping pace with all day. He felt for her.

As the general division of labour had been going, it was Branwe's night to cook, and Runa's to collect supplies from the area. She didn't speak at all, simply started going off to do her task as soon as camp was set, leaving Branwe and Nerella alone in camp. They both watched her stalk off. Nerella's eyes lingered on the sight more than Branwe's, as she clearly saw something he missed in it.

Nerella turned then looked at him. She had a friendly, almost expectant expression on her face as if offering herself to be at his disposal. He started laying out the dried ingredients, and boiling some water for a soup. Without instruction to follow, Nerella sat herself back down, and watched him work.

He was tired again. Worn out from all the riding, all the exercise. He had worked in a vineyard, which was no picnic itself. It's harder than it's given credit for, but this was still doing him in. Really, though, the hardest part about the day's journey was just watching Runa's anger with Nerella. As he took out his knife to begin slicing the ingredients smaller, he let his mind sink into the wading pool of sympathetic depression.

He'd been with Runa in Rielle. He'd seen how much this whole thing had been hurting her. He'd gotten a sense for how long. When they found Nerella, the mystery had deepened for Branwe. It had confused him. But for Runa, this journey had gone from one of seeking answers of what happened to her mama, and then… Well, and then dealing with the fact that apparently Nerella had _chosen_ not to return. Asking why had done no good. Being angry was like arguing with a wall. All this unhappiness had left Branwe with a stomach ache, and deep rings of exhaustion.

Nerella, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy. She was sitting, hugging her knees more to rest her head on than for warmth. Furs poked out from under her chain mail, which glistened with flakes of snow in its links. Her face was a little reddened by the chill, but she didn't look perturbed by it. It just gave her a little bit of a glow. This time a figurative one, though. She looked exactly like the bark of a redwood tree standing out against the crystalline white-blue backdrop. Even her long reddish brown dreadlocks looked like tree branches at a glance. There was no mistaking her for any other type of mer, she was Bosmer, but she was a Bosmer of Skyrim, not the tropics of Valenwood. Her black eyes glinted like the shells of beetles peering out of a nurse log. It gave her a perpetually mischievous look on her face.

"Can I help you?" asked Branwe. She shrugged, and smiled at him. He looked sidelong, and continued with his work, yawning and shaking himself awake a little more. She was still watching him. He felt as if every minutiae of his movements were being cataloged and judged.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, this time a little more threadbare than the first. She shrugged, and shook her head again.

He continued cooking as the horses grunted amongst themselves, and he was left in the painful silence of Neralla's stare.

She sat back up for a moment and held up a finger for him to wait. Her grin was wide and self important. She pulled out a small bottle the colour of honey, or amber. The label was faded to the point of illegibility, but upon it, separately from the rest, had been written the words 'Juniper Mead.' She showed it to him, though she seemed disappointed with his lack of reaction to the object. She speared the bottle into a snowbank to chill it, and returned to the fire. She took off her thick gloves, and rubbed her hands together, leaning towards him expectantly.

"Dinner will be ready soon..." he said, not sure what else was expected of him.

Nerella's shoulders slouched. She shook her head, and gestured her hand between the two of them. He felt profoundly dense, suddenly.

" _Oh_ ," he said as understanding clonked him over the head. "Yes. Um, you can... You can cut the potatoes?" he said, handing her the ready supplies.

Nerella smirked, rolled her eyes again – she did that a lot, he was noticing – and set to work.

"So, you know where we're going," he said, by way of trying to make one sided conversation. "I mean, you've been there before, the Blackreach. How do we get there?" he asked. Then sheepishly added, "I mean, if you can even explain..."

Nerella chuckled, and set the tubers down. She pulled out a very fine, very old map case. It housed a truly well loved and taken care of cloth map. She'd probably made it herself at some point in time, or perhaps she'd simply heavily modified it during its time in her care. It had thousands of points stitched into it, names and locations seen on no other map Branwe knew of. He genuinely believed she'd been to each one she'd actually stitched in. Some were labeled with ink of some sort, but the old ink marks of such places were a little ways off, like a temporary mark before she'd assayed the place for herself.

She laid out the map on a stone, and pointed to a location labeled Raldbthar. It was deep in Skyrim, very near the Throat of the World, a landmark even a city slicker like him knew the importance of. He looked up at her.

"Is it a tough climb?" he asked.

She again, weighed her answer, and shrugged.

"I take that to mean no, not for you, but for me, probably."

Her smirk told him that was a fair answer, which was a little bit disheartening for him to have to surmise.

He looked back down at the map. She had been so many places. Some of these were personal residences, some of these were caves, some of these were lost ruins. He found Falkreath, and remembered Runa mentioning their house just northeast of it. Sure enough, Lakeview was on the map in a small village.

"Gods, there are so many questions I want to ask you," he breathed. So many things he wanted to get straight. So much he was curious about. "Do you know how infuriating it is that you can't talk?" he finally settled on.

She rolled her eyes so dramatically her entire head rolled back with it. Her agreement was vehement.

"And I don't even know the half of it," he agreed.

She nodded violently. She smiled at him.

"Am I at least doing better at this than most people?" he asked hopefully.

She facially shrugged for a moment, and conceded that yeah, he seemed to be.

"Well, then, even if you can't steer the conversation, I hope I make the travel seem shorter," he offered.

She looked genuinely charmed by that, and blinked at him twice. This wasn't her putting on a smile to say something, this was just her face slowly blooming into a smile of its own volition. He was making the trek seem shorter. She hadn't thought to think about that before.

"So… Why aren't we going to Bruma?" Asked Branwe.

Nerella's face crinkled into something of a pained expression. Somewhere between annoyed an apologetic.

"I know you can't answer, but… I dunno… It just seems like…"

Nerella sighed dramatically. She gestured herself up and down tiredly. She pointed out her distinguishing features; her scars, her bow, her pickaxe. She gestured to Bruma, and shook her head with wistful exhaustion.

"You're just… too tired?" He asked.

Nerella closed her eyes.

"Something more complicated," assumed Branwe.

Eyes still closed, Nerella nodded tiredly. She opened her eyes again, and looked at him. She seemed so old somehow. Like the weight of centuries was on her.

"Do you… _want_ to go to town, but can't?" Asked Branw, holding out his left hand to his side, as if that sentence were in his palm. "Or is it," he said, holding out his right hand for the alternative option, "that you can but don't want to?"

Nerella looked at his hands for a moment. She put her own down in front of her for a bit, and contemplated them. She seemed to be really considering the answer to that question. Eventually, she offered forward her right hand towards him, and waggled her fingers, making sure Branwe understood that she was mirroring him.

"So, you can't for some reason," he confirmed.

Nerella nodded reluctantly, a little sadly.

"But… why?" He asked.

Nerella looked mournful. She closed her eyes again, and shook her head. She looked up at him, somewhat pleadingly.

"I don't…" he began. "I'm sorry," he said.

Nerella tried to smile, but her face just stayed sad.

"I didn't mean to pry, I'm just… so curious," continued Branwe.

Nerella tried to smile again, and nodded understandingly.

"We don't… We don't need to talk about it. Dinner will be ready soon."

The rest of the night went by in relative peace, and they shared some of Velod's juniper berry mead. One of the last bottles made fifty years ago.


	16. Chapter 16

Shorter though he may have made it seem, it was still a long trek, taken mostly in silence. Runa still harboured that jealousy and resentment. Branwe found the whole thing crushing. She wouldn't walk with him, wouldn't even look at him for anything less than essentials. The most he'd gotten out of Runa was a correction on where to set up a fire pit for the night.

Traveling during the daytime had gotten easier. At least, Branwe had gotten better at it. The weariness of horseback riding had lessened, and Branwe's fortitude for it had extended somewhat. He could ride, _and_ think at the same time, it seemed. When he discovered this, he spent most of his time brooding, and not looking forward to the night that would follow their traveling. Cold, stony silence, matched by magical muteness made for a very lousy set of entertainment.

But Branwe decided to be the indomitable spirit of cheerfulness. If Runa wasn't going to help him with that, well, fine. He looked around at the various snow drifts, and the ice covered trees they passed on their way to Blackreach. Branwe didn't have a lot of experience with snow, hailing originally from Skingraad. For the first bit of the journey, he'd lulled himself into boredom with the snow. It was white, it was flaky, it was cold. But with nothing else to think about, and hours to kill, it was hard not to look for _something_ to be entertained by.

At some point he'd pulled out his journal, and started jotting down quick notes and sketches of things that interested him. It was a task made difficult by riding, but no longer impossible. Alameda trudged on, heedless of his direction, following behind Shadowmere and Yaelinn with a similar dejectedness to Branwe's own. He looked at icicles, the way snow piled up on things, the way it melted. At one point, a single flake caught on his thick glove, and he stared at it transfixed, examining the beauty of the crystals that had formed it. Cold, small, fragile, an inconvenient. But undeniably beautiful. It brought a smile to Branwe's lips.

They set up camp again for the night. Little had happened on their journey but the occasional gorgeous vista, which Branwe wished he could capture better with his meager supplies. But the majesty of Skyrim would have to remain in Skyrim, for all that he could do to bring it with him. Branwe trudged off to collect firewood that night. Starting from the mouth of a small cavern, he set off into the woods.

"Don't stray too far," warned Runa. It was almost shocking to have anyone speaking after so much silence. She still wasn't looking at him, but it felt good to hear her voice.

"I won't," reassured Branwe after he recollected himself.

"I mean it," she said. "There are dangers out there."

"I know," said Branwe. "I won't," he said again, firmly. Runa looked up for a moment. Whatever expression was on her face, Branwe couldn't recognize it before it was gone again. He felt a little robbed by that. "I'll be back within an hour, firewood or no," he said.

He picked up the hand axe that Runa had been using. She'd shown him how to do this, and within Cyrodiil he'd been doing it unsupervised. But Runa wasn't wrong, Skyrim held many dangers that Cyrodiil lacked. The Imperials liked to think of themselves as civilized, and predictable. But Branwe had been developing a theory about that in his travels with Runa. Cyrodiil - or at least all the parts of it that Branwe had been to - were tame. Gentle. Controllable. Or at least predictable. It wasn't that the _people_ were civilized, it was that the _land_ was. The Nords lived in a land that fought you to the death. So they had become good at surviving such threats, and had weeded out those who couldn't hack it. The Imperials lived in a land that would willing coexist with them, and had become quite good at that.

They hadn't even made it into Skyrim proper, but Branwe was already feeling… Something. Some ineffable change. The air was sharper, maybe. More charged. It was hard to describe it. Like the rules were different here. Strange fairy tales he'd heard as a child had felt ridiculous back home, but here they felt plausible.

Branwe tried to focus his mind on the task at hand, instead of letting it wander too much. He selected a tree with sufficient branches, and began hacking a few off for the evening's fire. He even lucked upon a nice patch of berries - fresh ones, which was a surprising boon for the time of year - and collected a few of those. Heavied with his burden of firewood and berries, Branwe began to heft them back to the camp.

He stopped suddenly. He felt something peculiar. A shiver rising in his body. Not of cold, but of unease. Something was wrong. He slowed his movements to a halt, and began to glance around. He was being watched.

Even in the wonderland of white that was around him, it was dark. Sound was muffled and muted as large, fluffy flakes landed softly on the snow around him, piling up into massive drifts. He squatted low, beside a shrub that was mostly covered by powder, and tried to get his bearings. He hadn't been out long, but the footprints from his trip out were already fading into nothing more than ripples on the blanket of white. It struck him how easy it might be to get lost in this wilderness. And he was still being watched, which made the whole realization more concerning.

He stared out over the landscape. The frozen creek, caught still in winter. Up on the other side, high on the ridge of a hill. That's where he saw it. Bright yellow eyes, peering down from the darkness. Hard to see through all the snow, but they were watching him keenly and intently. Branwe was transfixed when he met their gaze.

The massive yellow eyes blinked, and withdrew a few feet into the gloom. Branwe held steady. The gentle sound of snowfall filled an eternity of silence. No thoughts came in this time, just the connection of two beings. Curiosity and caution. Branwe felt the urge to reach out, but also the urge to run. He gave in to neither, and simply watched. Still. Motionless. What was this creature?

Eventually the eyes blinked again. The head tilted slightly, its interest piqued. But then its eyes lowered to the ground, and again, it backed up, and out of sight.

Branwe finally breathed. And did so again, watching after where the creature had come from. A third deep breath, and finally Branwe looked around. He saw his trail, and his eyes returned to where the creature had been. He hefted his backpack, still watching the spot as long as he could. Finally, though, he headed back to camp.

…

"You're late," said Runa, when he arrived. Huge clumps of white fell off of Branwe as he bent to drop the bundle of firewood.

"Sorry," he said.

Runa sneered, and brusquely began setting up the fire. Nerella was watching him with a scrutinous expression. Her expression spoke a question just about as loudly as a face can. But Branwe just shrugged off his outer fur, caught between not having noticed, and being too apathetic to care.

"I found some berries," he mumbled to Runa, handing her the sack. Before she opened her mouth to argue with him, he continued. "I didn't eat any, no. But they looked edible, based on what you told me."

Runa glanced at the little sack he'd collected them in. She pulled on out and inspected it.

"They are," she said with mild surprise. "Snowberries." She popped one into her mouth, a small smile coming to her lips. She laughed a little. "They're a little too sour to eat raw. But I might be able to make something out of them tonight." There was just a touch of nostalgia on her face as she looked at them. She looked back up at Branwe warmly. "Good catch," she added.

Branwe felt a little puffed up by this. Whatever had shifted Runa's mood was a pleasant surprise. She'd been cool, and angry for days now. Anything that made her smile again was like stepping out of a blizzard and toward the hearth to him. He didn't know what it was that had done it, but he didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Speaking of horses, he decided to check on them. They were huddled around Alameda. Shadowmere and Yaelinn didn't look too cold, but poor Alameda was definitely chilled. He started walking towards the trio, but Nerella's hand on his shoulder stayed him.

He swivelled around quite suddenly. She shook her head at him, a warm, if a bit mocking smile on her face.

"I was just going to brush-" he began.

But Nerella held up a hand. She tapped her forehead, and pointed to Yaelinn meaningfully, still holding Branwe still by the shoulder.

Branwe looked at Yaelin's horn. It was pulsating with gentle magic. A little shimmer, a wreath of something, around Alameda. The old paint looked soothed, and sleepy. She kept waking up a little, glancing around, then dosing again. Shadowmere was awake, alert, standing tightly beside her, to attention. But Yaelinn was nuzzling beside her. Doing whatever equine equivalent of singing a lullaby, as near as Branwe could tell.

He looked back at Nerella. She shrugged, a little cheerful smile on her face. He glanced back at the horses, and Shadowmere was staring at him seriously. With a gesture of his massive head, he seemed to be waving Branwe away.

"Well, all right then," said Branwe, resignedly. "What exactly is it they're doing?" he asked, turning to Nerella.

Nerella looked skyward a moment, as if trying to figure out how to begin answering that question. She settled on waggling her fingers around, and holding her face in a spooky 'Ooooooooh' expression as she did so.

"I could tell it was magic, I just-"began Branwe again. BUt he sighed, and stopped himself. "Nevermind. She's enjoying herself?"

Nerella nodded.

"Then that's good enough," said Branwe tiredly. With nothing left to do but wait for dinner, he sat down by his pack.

Nerella leaned herself back into his cone of vision, trying to get his attention quietly.

"Yes?" Asked Branwe.

She smiled, and sat down across from him. Her face was was plastered with an interested smile. Almost as if she were attempting to magnetically attract information towards herself.

At a loss, Branwe just blinked in response. "Um, can I help you with something?" He asked.

Nerella continued to stare at him with her mischevious black eyes. Staring her down like this, it was often hard to remember who she actually was. She was so small and unimposing. Just a little Bosmer, looking up at him with this expression, this expectation. It was very like that of a child waiting on a bedtime story. She gestured her hands out to him.

"I don't…" began Branwe, confused.

Again, Nerella gestured to him.

"Me?" He asked to clarify.

Nerella nodded enthusiastically, and folded her hands under her chin to look up at him as if ready to absorb his words.

"Um," said Branwe. He glanced up at Runa for a little help. But she just laughed silently, shook her head, and went back to cooking. "What _about_ me?" Asked Branwe.

Nerella looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment. Then into the corner of the camp. Her face lit up as she spotted something, and she pointed at his lute.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, well, I mean…" he said, suddenly blushing furiously. "Compared to… That is… I play a little," he said. He felt on the spot.

Nerella nodded again, encouragingly.

"I mean…" said Branwe, still stalling. There was no way he could play in front of Nerella. _Nerella the Calm_. This wasn't happening. His brain was drawing a complete blank. Whiter than the blanket of snow outside. Just... nothing was coming to him. "Gosh," he said, still stalling. "I don't even know if it's tuned… I can't-You don't want to hear me play," he finally managed, ducking his head to hide the worst of his blush.

Again, Nerella smiled. It was wide, warm, and friendly. She nodded very slowly, very deliberately, refuting his claim with the gesture.

"W-well, um, a-alright," he said. He stood up to go and fetch his instrument. As he did so, he noticed that Runa was watching him, amusement evident on her face. He shot her a glare that told her to shut up. She had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing.

"Nervous, are we?" she asked mockingly as he passed her.

"For fuck's sake, _yes_!" wheezed Branwe. He felt like he wasn't getting enough air.

"Knock 'em dead," said Runa unhelpfully. She went back to cooking.

"Could you burn yourself, or-or-"

"I'm afraid you're on your own."

"I hate you."

"Go on, your audience awaits."

And that it did. Branwe looked back over to where Nerella had been sitting. _Had_ been sitting. She'd snuck her way with perfect stealth, and followed him all the way over, close at his heel. His heart sank when he looked at her, standing not two feet away from him, wearing an amused smile.

"You heard all that…" he choked.

Nerella nodded, grinning widely.

Branwe visibly deflated. "Do I have to?" he squeaked, clutching his lute to his chest like it might protect him somehow.

Nerella took a breath, and reached out to take his hand. She held it gently in her own, and looked him in the eye with an encouraging smile. She shook her head very slightly, but very meaningfully at him. Then, with a hopeful little shrug and tilt of her eyebrow, Nerella squeezed his hand. She was looking him in the eyes through her brow, almost but not quite pleadingly.

Branwe's shoulders drooped from where they'd been, up around his ears. He looked at her with exhausted terror in her eyes.

But Nerella seemed to understand his meaning before he even started to put it into words. She closed her eyes, and put one hand over her heart. Then she opened them again, and put her hands together, once again begging him.

Branwe sighed reluctantly, and nodded. He let her lead him to the place which had been designated 'sitting space' for tonight's camp.

"Any requests?" he asked, threadbare.

Nerella's eyes shifted sideways as she considered her options. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Then she looked at him, and put on a very deliberate frown, her lips forming a perfect little arch.

"Something sad, then?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Right," he said. He closed his eyes, and tried to banish the demons of nervousness. Tried to forget that only a moment before he'd made quite a fool of himself. He tried to breathe, and let the music flow out of him like it normally did. His hands were trembling, both from self consciousness, and from the cold. He put his chilled fingers to the string, and experimentally struck a chord. He felt around in his mind, trying to link up his fingers to the songs housed in there.

 _A cold winter's night,_

 _It the barrows and hills._

 _A baby alone,_

 _In the chill of the wind._

 _The howling, and gales,_

 _They did not abade._

 _And the father had left,_

 _With no thought to his babe._

 _The mother work hard,_

 _With a tireless gait._

 _The children would grow,_

 _And would follow his wake._

 _But the father cared nothing,_

 _And did naught but roam._

 _Till the mother had died,_

 _He had not come back home._

It was a simple tune. The first one that had come to mind. He'd always liked the flourishes he could do in the bridge, the little lines of song that wove in and out on the higher strings. The secondary melody, like an echo following the first. Such a song never made very good tips, but Branwe had always enjoyed playing it.

When he looked up, Nerella had no smile on her face. Her brow had kinked into a little bit of a frown. Every other muscle in her face was slack. Whatever expression she was looking up at him with, Branwe didn't have a ready name for it. But she looked… moved.

"It's just an old standard from Skingraad," he mumbled to fill the uncomfortable silence.

For a moment, Nerella flashed him a little smile. But it faded again under the heaviness of the other expression. She shook her head, and looked at him with a grateful sort of nod before her eyes went to rest on the ground, lost in her own world.

Branwe looked over at Runa. She wasn't facing him, but she, too, was standing stock still. She'd listened just as intently as Nerella. And it had cut both of them.

With idle fingers, Branwe began to pluck out another tune. But he didn't sing this time. He just left everyone to think.

…

The next morning, Nerella woke up thrilled. She'd prepared breakfast, even though strictly it wasn't her turn. She'd assisted with breaking camp. And when Branwe, still stiff and sore, and half asleep, had tried to lend a hand in the endeavor, she shook her head flatly, and began throwing coins at him.

"Augh, what-" he started. Runa glanced over tiredly, but returned to her work, uninterested. "Why are you-ow!"

"She want's you to play a song," yawned Runa.

Nerella nodded enthusiastically.

"You-Augh, stop throwing things at me!" said Branwe. "You want me to play another?" he asked, entirely taken aback.

Again, Nerella nodded. She gestured to him, to his lute, and once again mimed singing. Then she gestured to herself, and her throat, and shrugged. She clasped her hands together toward him, and actually hopped up and down as she begged at him.

"Okay, okay, I…" he said, entirely confused. This time, he decided not to wait for a request. This time, he'd just play something cheerful.

Finally, camp was broken, and Nerella tapped Branwe on the shoulder to get him to come along. It felt strange, after all this time on the road, to be excused from camp duties even for one day not at an inn.

Over the course of their travels, Nerella had taken to having Branwe fill the silence with song, seeing as she couldn't. While they were on horseback, when she wasn't watching for something, she would throw coins at his head until he started singing something. He got pretty good at catching them. Sometimes she would clap a certain beat and be disappointed when he didn't catch on immediately.

When they got to make camp that night, she actually pulled out _her_ lute, and even played a few duets with him. Branwe couldn't decide if these moments were like a gift from the gods themselves, or the most terrifying thing he'd ever experienced. She wove around any tune he played with ease and skill, making even the most juvenile tune seem rich, and full of wonder. He'd heard stories of her voice, of course. Everyone had. The Crystal Voice Bard, as famous for that as for being able to absorb dragon souls. When he played with her, he longed to hear a voice that could possibly compare to that wonder. Just one more drop in the bucket of reasons he was along for this ride.

Nerella played anything handed to her like an angel. She would pick up a flute, and music would flow out of it like water through a sieve. She could drum a stirring beat on any surface. Even when she tipped him, it was on beat to his songs. Though, he was developing a bruise from all the coins thrown at his head. They all hit exactly the same spot, her marksmanship training really making it tough to appreciate flying bits of currency.

As they played together, Nerella even taught him a few new songs, and showed him some ways of improving ones he already knew. Some of her own, some she'd heard and liked. She played the melodies for him as he read them off the page in her songbook, and he brought words to songs she hadn't been able to sing herself for some time. She was utterly ecstatic about the whole thing.

"You know," said Branwe one night after Runa had gone to sleep. He and Nerella sat around the fire, warming their hands and finishing the last of their mead for the evening. They spoke low, so as not to disturb. "You're not what I was expecting at all…" he admitted.

Nerella laughed silently. She nodded.

"I mean, you're so… Friendly," he said.

Nerella did a little facsimile of a blush by way of thanking him.

"I thought you would be… I don't know. Serious, imposing. You're just… If I didn't know who you were… I don't know where I'm going with this thought. But it's nice," he settled on. "I'm glad I got to meet you."

Nerella looked at him with a self satisfied smile, straightened up, and nodded reciprocally to him.

"Very kind of you to think so," answered Branwe.

Nerella clapped her hands, and gestured to him.

"Me?" he asked for confirmation. "What about me?" he asked.

Nerella tilted her head in curiosity.

"I'm supposed to be writing a thesis on you," volunteered Branwe.

Nerella waved that thought away, as if entirely uninterested in that line. Again, she gestured to him. She took her other hand, and held it above the first, as if holding a little orb that represented Branwe himself. Then, with a very questioning expression on her face, she held another little orb next to it, and shook it as if to punctuate her question. Then above it, the same thing. Then she let go of the second orb, and shrugged expectantly.

Branwe squinted at the whole thing confused. "My… Family?" he asked.

Nerella nodded, dropping all the mimed objects she'd been holding, and gesturing to him that he had gotten the right answer. She opened her hands to him, inviting him to tell her more.

"My… Well, I was born in Skingraad, I think I've mentioned," he began tentatively.

Nerella snuggled her knees close to her, and settled in to listen attentively.

"I live on a Vineyard. Heh, well, most of the time. Not recently of course. Um, let's see. My mother and father passed when I was little. My older sister, Rithleen, pretty much took over raising me from there. Her husband, Edwore, helps in the fields. We have a hound, Fuzz, but he's getting on in years…"

 _Who are you, Branwe?_ He heard himself think.

"My sister runs the family vineyard," he continued. "I live there with her and her husband. I think I said that part already, didn't I? S-sorry, I'm likely to babble. I don't really… I dunno, I don't know how to talk about myself."

Nerella was watching him with a patient, beautific smile. She said nothing. Of course she said nothing, but Branwe had started to read her various communications as speaking. But this time she really said nothing. She was just sitting there, watching him. As if that were enough in itself to hold her interest. Again, the name Nerella the Calm made sense. She simply settled in, and decided to pay her attention to him. Whatever was going to come next.

Branwe felt a little crushed by the weight of that attention.

 _You're talking to Nerella the Calm_ , he heard himself think. _Who are you, to be talking to Nerella the Calm?_

"Sorry, I'm just so nervous," he decided to say aloud. "Um, I've visited the Imperial City, um… A few times. I like the libraries there," he said, finally finding a fact about himself he could share.

Nerella perked up, blinking a few times with a sudden keenness to her interest. Kind of like the way a dog who's been watching for a while suddenly raises its ears. She nodded for him to continue.

"I like all the books there…" he said, feeling rather foolish. He shifted uncomfortably, and let himself slide down the tree he was leaning on. Maybe it would make it would make it easier to talk to her with a clear head if he weren't standing up.

At night, when Runa had gone to sleep, she would sit patiently and listen to him talk. It started with him asking her questions, but eventually the questions he'd asked had piqued her curiosity, too. She started egging him on to talk about his family, his life outside of Skingraad, Rithleen, and his aspirations to join the Bards college. She could say nothing on the any subject, but she listened about as loudly and fervently as anyone he'd talked to. He told the story of his encounter with the bear again, this time more confidently. He talked about how he had come here. His topics ranged from family pets he'd had, to embarrassing stories he'd heard, to everything else.

The days wore on mostly in the lowlands. They didn't travel over the mountains on their way, and they weren't passing through any known town. They skirted far east of Falkreath. He wished their path would take them through it, he wanted to see it. He didn't really know until some days later that he was actually already in Skyrim. The change had been somewhat gradual. Plus, it was hard to see that sort of thing under thick layers of snow, which was everywhere.

It wasn't until noon one day in their travels that the clouds let up, and he realized where he was. He looked up at the Throat of the World. And up. And up still. It wasn't just a mountain, it was a giant among mountains, and he was at its foot. Thousands of tonnes of rock, all sitting their in a solemn pillar, reaching all the way up to the sky. It was no wonder the Nords always prided themselves as being holy. They had something like this, scraping the heels of the gods themselves, practically reaching into atherius and puncturing the sky with new constellations.

Nerella watched him see it for the first time. This was what she'd been watching for. She looked genuinely gratified to see this strong a reaction to such a landmark. He looked back down at her after a while, feeling the icy air bring attention to the tears that had welled in his eyes.

"It's beautiful..." he whispered reverently. Runa turned around on her horse and looked at him. She looked back up at the mountain, and stopped. She nodded.

"Yes. Sometimes I forget that," she said sadly. She looked up at it for a moment, and took a deep breath as she contemplated it. "It's just a mountain to me. Live around it long enough, and you forget to look at it and really see it."

Nerella smiled up at the monolith. She shook her head very slightly. She never forgot to see it.

"You've been to the top of _that_ thing?" asked Branwe, still agog. Nerella nodded, a little self-importantly. She smiled at him, and motioned for them to keep going. She clicked her tongue, and Yaelinn was off again with a cheerful little snicker.

They skirted around very little. This part of the country was predominantly unsettled, the rocks and snow making it unfit for establishing caravan routes, or farms. Right at the foot of the mountain, they did end up skirting past a small village. Runa was dispatched to collect some supplies, as she'd draw less attention than either of them, her simply being a native Nord. Branwe and Nerella stayed in a nearby barrow. It gave Branwe the creeps, but Nerella swept through it very thoroughly before letting him inside, and deemed it safe for the night. It would hide their fire, even though they were so close to civilization.

The passed the throat, finally, and were leaving it behind them. The landscape there was littered with old castles, and ruins torn at by harsh and unforgiving weather, and the neglect of years. A lot of Skyrim seemed to look like that so far. As if the words 'used to' were used a lot in this place.

They rounded the foot of another, significantly smaller mountain on the second day of their journey in. The weather here was cruel. They found a small, but warm cave to leave the horses. Branwe was assured that Shadowmere and Yaelinn would keep track of Daisy for him, and that tying them up, given the circumstances, was actually more dangerous for the animals.

They pressed onward, up the slope. The snow blinded them all, even Runa and Nerella struggled with it. They stopped often, and set up shelter. He knew if it were just the two of them, and their magically powered horses, they would just have powered through it. But they stopped mostly for his benefit. Which was both touching, and made him feel awful. Runa, for her part, kept him from dropping back down into his depression on that front, by cooperating with Nerella's attempts to get him to sing, and heckling him while he told tales.

Finally, about half way up the foothills, they made it to a white stone tower with brass bars all around the base. Nerella stuck Skendraal through the bars, and popped up the handle of a lever with it, which swung open a gate for them. Remarkably smooth, given the frozen air and what should have been a build up of snow. It led to a single chamber, hardly big enough for the three of them to stand in comfortably together. There were large gears on the corners of the floor, and matching treads down the walls. Nerella grinned, and pointed for them not to stand by the edges as she pulled the central lever.

The gears started to turn. The ground started to sink.

Elevators were a new thing for Branwe, so his initial panic at dying took over. Runa and Nerella both tried not to laugh at him for it, but neither really could stop themselves from a small chuckle at his expense. Nerella was grinning very widely all the way down the elevator, too. She looked excited, and once again, was doing that odd thing where she watches their reactions. The elevator came to a stop finally, and they looked out the door.

There should have been some sort of buildup. Some sort of fanfare for a view like this. Branwe's jaw dropped, and he gazed in pure awe.

The haze of blue in the air. The glowing, soft velvet light of the giant fungus, with stalks the size of buildings. Just sitting there, the very definition of serenity. Long tendrils of their blue light both hung down from, and reached up toward, the ceiling. The entire cavern was alive. It swayed like it was breathing softly. The spores in the air dancing in currents. Branwe felt like he could swim away into the massive scene. Like he was somewhere on the ocean floor, in a secret, and wondrous place.

The ground was soft sand, under his feet when he stepped out of the elevator. There were pools of water, some were clear as glass, others were almost like pools of milk. The mechanical genius of Dwarven architecture was all around him as the sounds of gears working away into infinity filled his ears. The domes and arches of buildings built to stand up to centuries of neglect faded off into the distance of the blue haze.

There was a yellowish light coming from up ahead, above what looked to be a remarkably intact structure. He pointed excitedly, and was about to exclaim, when Runa slapped a hand over his mouth. She whispered very seriously into his ear.

"We're not in a safe place right now. You need to be quiet. There are Falmer all around here," she said. "Nod if you understand."

Branwe blinked, swallowed, and nodded. Her voice had been so level that it frightened him. She was scared. She hadn't been scared, or at least not that he could see, the entire time they'd traveled together. Gently, as if he might not hold to his end of the bargain and she needed to be ready to go back to quieting him, she let him go.

The Nerella and Runa were stashing their packs in the elevator so they could move more freely and quietly. They were also pulling their weapons. Branwe didn't have one of the latter, but for the former he still followed suit. He did, however, keep his writing implements and rubbing supplies. It seemed to be one of the only things he was useful for to these two, so he wasn't going to give up an opportunity to be useful in that way.

"So, what's the plan here?" he whispered to Nerella before they exited the elevator a second time. Nerella pulled out her pouch of Atherium, and grabbed a small nugget of it. She pointed two fingered at her eyes, then his, then Runa's, then pointed to the nugget. "But everything down here glows blue. How are we going to find Atherium in this mess?" he asked. Nerella rolled her eyes and shook her head. She pointed somewhere off to the distance, and gripped the nugget in a fist. She beckoned them along with her. "You knew where it was in here the whole time?" asked Branwe, still in a hushed whisper. Nerella nodded. She pointed to the bottom of a crevasse behind the elevator. She checked that she had her pickaxe, and the nugget of Atherium. Nerella twisted a ring she wore innocuously on her finger, and it flashed briefly with magic. She smirked at them, and dove over the edge.

It was a good three seconds before they heard the splash. They might have cried out at the shock of what just happened, but they both slapped their hands over the other's mouth. They held their breath for a very long time, watching into the dark inky blackness of the water below for any sign of life. Both of them had to give up after some time, and start breathing again.

"Do you think she's...?"

"She's didn't just..."

"She's got to be..."

"Yeah."

"Yeah..."

If asked later, neither would remember which one said which part. It was mutual, unfinished thoughts bubbling to the surface in concern. They sat there helplessly. Should they go down and investigate? It wasn't like she was floating to the top dead, but she was wearing chain mail, and carrying a heavy stone pickaxe. So she might not even float with all that.

"Does her ring...?"

"...I don't know."

"Oh."

"Yeah..."

Finally, after a solid two minutes of waiting, Nerella resurfaced. She waved to them, and one could see a bright, blue glow coming from her hand. Bigger than the stone she'd brought down with her. She swam to a nearby shore, and dragged herself out of the water. She squeezed out her dreads as Runa and Branwe scrambled to find their way down to her.

It wasn't nearly as difficult a climb as it had looked like it would be. In fact, the water wasn't as far down as it had looked, or sounded like. The light in the Blackreach was distorted, it seemed, by the spores and haze probably. And the sound of cave walls is never reliable, even at the best of times.

There, on the sandy beach, they saw Nerella the Calm, with a fresh chunk of Atherium in her hand, about the size of a big toe.

They made their way back up the sheer climb, and out of the spectacular surroundings of the Blackreach, some more reluctantly than others. Nerella shook herself dry, and the camped in the elevator for an hour or so with a fire before trying to damply brave the dangers of the weather outside.

"So, how far away is it to the Forge from here?" asked Branwe. Nerella grinned elated, and held up a single finger. "One? Week? Day?" She tapped her nose quite suddenly at that last. "One day? Only one day's travel away from here?" asked Branwe, genuinely excited. She nodded wildly, all smiles and grins. "North, east, west...?" he asked, making accompanying gestures as he did so in order to give her a means of answering. South.

"You mean we passed it on our way here...?" asked Branwe confused. Nerella bit her lip, and conceded the point uneasily. She smiled somewhat apologetically.

"She wouldn't have trusted you with the secret," explained Runa cooly. Nerella didn't even attempt to argue with the statement, but it was clearly thought blunt, and rude.

"O-oh, I mean, I'm... I'm just a tag along," said Branwe placatingly. "It's not like I'm... It's fine," he assured. He looked from one woman's face to the other. There was something very loudly not being said. He couldn't tell exactly what it was. Runa sneered at Nerella just before she spoke again.

"I'm going to go and get some firewood," she snapped. Branwe raised a hand in token resistance, trying to tell her that it was his turn for that, but she was already half gone by the time he'd started to open his mouth. He chickened out. He bit his lip, and blushed uncomfortably as he looked over at Nerella.

"I guess I'll get dinner started, then..." he said.


End file.
